In the Shadow of Dragons
by Your Lady Kaos
Summary: Elia Martell dies giving birth to twin sons. In a much changed world, the Seven Kingdoms have enjoyed unparalleled peace and prosperity beneath the shadow of dragon wings and the renewed power of the Iron Throne. The game of thrones is still on, as is the game of powers far beyond mortal comprehension.
1. Prologue: The Thing With Many Faces

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry Potter opened his eyes to fog. Not feeling the familiar weight of glasses, he touched his face and found nothing. Dying had apparently rendered vision problems obsolete.

Rising to stand, he discovered modesty obsolete too. Though there was no one around to see him anyway, Harry still wished for clothes. Of course nothing manifested for him. He wasn't even standing on solid ground. Swirling white mist stretched endlessly onward whichever way he looked.

Far off, he thought he heard the sound of ripping flesh. There were other noises too, things too terrible for him to contemplate.

"Is this it, then?" he wondered.

Harry found himself not particularly devastated the afterlife was an endless expanse of nothing. His sacrifice ensured Voldemort was down another Horcrux. Others knew about Nagini. The Dark Lord was immortal no longer. Death had numbed him to everything else.

"Hardly, my boy. After all, to an organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

Harry's heart clenched as he whirled around. Part of him had never expected to see Albus Dumdlebore again, but there he was, strolling out of the fog. Silver stars shimmered on his midnight robes. His long white beard and half-moon spectacles were the same as ever.

Harry's joy faltered as he further studied the man's face. The grandfatherly smile showed a little too much teeth. Blue eyes glittered like ice.

Never before had he wished more for a wand or something to cover his naked fear. "You're not Dumbledore, are you?"

The smile dropped from the false face. "No," the stranger said flatly, in Dumbledore's stolen voice. "I am not."

Harry considered running for his life. Then he remembered he had no life to protect and no idea what else lurked out there in the mist. "Take it off," he ordered with courage he did not have. "If you want to talk, do it as yourself."

"As you wish." Then the stranger peeled off Dumbledore's face, silver beard and all.

Harry's mind refused to recall what lurked beneath the false guise of Albus Dumbledore. He dimly remembering the Thing donning the mask of a moon-pale maiden, then that of a woman weeping silver tears, and then that of a lion-headed man whose breath reeked of decay. Finally the Thing shrouded Its features in a black robe. Squinting into the hood, Harry expected to see a skull or some shadowy suggestion of a face. He saw only blackness.

"You're-"

"One with many faces and many names," said the Thing in a voice neither male nor female nor anything in between. "One that cannot be escaped."

There was a shriek and a snapping sound. A skinny, red, child-sized arm flew out of the mist to land at their feet. Harry backed away in revulsion. His forehead twinged.

"Is that the Horcrux?" he breathed.

"Tom Riddle comes to us in pieces," the Thing intoned. "But still he comes."

A tentacle lined with a dozen glowing eyes reached out of the fog. It snatched the arm and vanished. Harry wondered if the... things would be fighting over him next. Then he thought of Hogwarts and all those that had already died there. What had happened to Fred? To poor little Colin Creevey? To Remus and Tonks?

"Does this mean Voldemort is dead or dying right now? My friends, they-"

"Will all come to me. They all do."

"You know that's not what I meant!" Harry exploded. Here he did not have magic or a wand, but he had fists. "No one should be suffering because of me! Hermione and Ron deserve to move on without me. The Weasleys should all die old and happy-"

The Thing grabbed his neck and lifted him high into the air. Though Harry no longer needed to breathe, his soul suffocated all the same as something cold and black burrowed toward its heart. He knew there would be nothing left of Harry James Potter if the Thing squeezed hard enough.

 _"The true master does not seek to run away from Death. He accepts that he must die, and understands that are far, far worse things in the living world in dying."_

It dropped Its mocking parody of Dumdlebore's voice as it continued. "You were mine sixteen years ago, Harry James Potter, until your mother meddled where she should not have. I could have claimed you anytime before now. The basilisk venom might have reached your heart sooner or the Dementors been a tad more determined. Do you know how many supposed prophecies recorded by your Ministry will go unfulfilled? Some of their intended subjects never survived the womb."

The Thing suddenly swelled in size. Harry found himself rising above the fog to glimpse abominations with a thousand eyes or a multitude of mouths.

"They _never_ learn their prophecies have no power over who I choose to claim or when I choose to do so. They insist I must let them play their little games of fate and folly." The Thing could not laugh, but it sounded as amused as it could. "And then your mother attracted my attention to you. Were you unremarkable, I could send you after your loved ones. Were you mildly entertaining, perhaps I'd throw you back into your dull little life for a few decades longer or even grant you the mercy of oblivion."

Fourteen heads upon seven necks stopped squabbling amongst themselves to stare. Their molten eyes burned pits into Harry that chased even the Thing's chill from his soul. Other things followed their gaze and fixated upon him too.

"You have promise yet, Harry James Potter. _Amuse me."_

The Thing tossed him into the air like table scraps to a dog. Beings of ice and fire and other more terrible elements turned upon each other.

One of the fourteen heads snapped him up first. Down Harry fell into a raging inferno. The heat boiled away his flesh and charred his bones until there was nothing left but his heart.

He was pretty sure they consumed that, too.

* * *

Somewhere warm and dark, two hearts beat. One was strong and steady, the other slow and erratic.

The smaller, weaker heart shuddered once, twice. It did not beat again.

The death of one did not necessarily mean the death of the other. The fragile forms were small enough to be harmlessly absorbed and ignored by those in the world outside. Their mother could bare a healthy child without ever realizing its twin had died months before.

The still heart shuddered as sudden and unspeakable power course through it. The world held its breath.

Then the heart began again with a pulse as steady as its twins.

Their mother slept blissfully on. Their father turned away, uneasy. His dreams shifted from his three promised heads to nightmares of dancing dragons.

 **Holy shit, this thing is fun to write :D**

 **Any questions or comments can be directed to the forum I set up just for this story. Find the link on my profile.  
**


	2. The Second Son

**Any questions for this story can be directed to this story's forum. The link's on my profile.**

Spring had been on its way, or so the people had thought when the weather had warmed and the snow melted. The open windows in Dragonstone did not welcome in a pleasant breeze, but a harsh wind blowing in from the north with the bite of winter. The thaw would be over soon.

Despite the chill, Elia refused to be moved from her chaise or for the windows to be shuttered. Her olive skin shone with a light sheen of sweat.

"They are definitely dragons," she said, "for they burn and rage as Rhaenys never did."

Rhaegar rested a hand against her belly to feel their kicking. "I remember Rhaenys being just as restless."

"Even in the womb, your harp could lull her to sleep. These babes sleep for nothing. They're eager to be born." Elia's dark eyes looked out to sea. "I spoke with Maester Corwyn today. The bigger the babes grow, the weaker his lies become. Rhaenys left me bedridden for half a year. When I pressed him today, the maester admitted it would be highly unlikely for all three of us to survive."

Rhaegar's violet eyes tried to meet his wife's, but her gaze remained locked on the Narrow Sea. "Maester Corwyn is wrong, Elia. You and our twins will be fine. We _know_ this."

He knew this just as he knew his unborn son, conceived beneath the bleeding star, to be the prince that was promised. He also knew his son's twin to be a sister, his second wife, the third head of the dragon. If the world was to be saved from blue-eyed demons and the creeping cold, then the dragon had to have three heads.

Elia's dark gaze pierced his own. "I know giving birth to Rhaenys almost killed me. I know that, whether I survive or not, these babes will be my last. You need your three precious heads. I need my children to live. If it comes down to a choice between us-"

"Elia-"

Her hands clasped tightly against his own. Beneath her sweat-soaked gown, their twins stirred. "Choose my children. Promise me you'll choose them, Rhaegar."

Elia's skin was burning to the touch. Rhaegar tried to wrest his hand away, but her grip was iron. It was not their children kicking within her, but something fighting for release.

 _"Promise me, Rhaegar," she said, even as blood tumbled from her mouth._

 _Elia's grip fell slack when she did. Rhaegar leaped away, his hands burnt and bloody. Her body radiated heat even as the winter wind at his back howled and seared his flesh with frozen fangs._

 _Something gnawed its way through her womb and into the world, a parasite with a mouth full of fangs and arms bent like bird's wings. It had no eyes and its scaly skin was teeming with maggots. Its twin brother, stillborn and perfectly formed, tumbled out behind it._

 _Outside, a dragon was screaming, for two of its its heads had been decapitated._

 _His visions shifted. Instead of a monster, Elia brought forth beautiful twin girls. The dragon's three heads sank their fangs into each other's necks._ _ _Their husbands tore the realm apart like crows fighting for carrion._ Fire fell and frost covered all of their scattered corpses._

 _Then it was twin sons. One was silver-haired and violet-eyed, his promised prince. The other, dark-haired and dark-eyed, was forever consigned to his shadow. While two heads moved in perfect harmony, the third gazed upon them and his eyes burned bright with desire. Two heads tore each other apart for the sake of the third and again the dragon fell._

 _At last, a brother and sister-wife were born, and the song of ice and fire was no longer discordant. The three-headed dragon rose high and those beneath it learned to fear its shadow._

"Your Grace!"

Rhaegar opened his eyes. He had no idea when his reminiscing had twisted into dragon dreams. He couldn't even remember falling asleep.

His chambers were pitch-black and outside the winds shrieked with the full force of a winter storm. It had been early afternoon and the snow lightly falling when Elia's rooms had echoed with the sound of angry cries. Rhaegar had not been allowed inside, but the nursemaid had handed him a son with a head of fair hair and bright blue eyes that promised to one day spring up violet.

 _"He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."_

Rhaegar had cradled his son, his Aegon, the babe with a dragon's lungs. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw her standing there, a girl who looked much like his mother, but with a fire in her amethyst eyes Rhaella had never possessed. He'd blinked and she was gone, for his Visenya was still but a vision fighting to come into reality.

"The child," Rhaegar demanded as he blinked away the past and rose to his feet.

"Alive, Your Grace." Ser Arthur Dayne's somber expression offered no relief. "The Princess..."

Rhaegar's heart skipped. A hysterical part of him wanted to run down the halls, though he knew it would do no good. "It's too late."

Arthur sighed. "Maester Corwyn said the labor had dragged out far too long. A choice had to be made, mother or child, and he followed the orders given."

Rhaegar was unsurprised. No matter the babes born, Elia vanished from his dreams at that point. On some level, they both knew her birthing bed would become her deathbed, and had accepted it. Elia might have never realized the full gravity of Rhaegar's dragon dreams, or how soundly his Uncle Aemon's advice had guided him, but she had loved her children even if she did not appreciate their significance.

He went to Elia's side first. The bloodied sheets had been stripped away, but not even the heavy smoke hanging in the air could disguise the bitter smell of death. Elia had been cleaned, but nothing could disguise the dark bruises beneath her eyes or the hollows in her cheeks.

Rhaegar took one of her small hands in her own. After his nightmares, he half expected it to burn, but much of the heat had already fled from her.

"Thank you," he murmured. Without her sacrifice, there would have been no song.

His eyes strayed to the corner of the room. Ser Lewyn Martell seemed to have aged a decade over the course of hours.

"She fought long and she fought hard, Your Grace," the old knight said roughly, voice thick with unshed tears. "Elia was always so selfless when it came to those she loved."

Lewyn had not left Elia's side since the night prior. "Would you like to come with me to meet her youngest, Ser Lewyn?"

The old man swayed slightly, but he did not leave his post until Arthur silently came to relieve him. "She fought the hardest for him, Your Grace."

Rhaegar's heart dropped. "A son," he said slowly. "Twin sons?"

"Aye, Your Grace. The maester's looking over the younger one now."

Fire roared in the hearth of the next room, but still the wind howled in through the cracks of Dragonstone's drafty walls. The back of Rhaegar's neck prickled at the silence.

"How fares the babe, maester?"

Corwyn slipped into a bow. Rhaegar tried to ignore his blood-splattered robes. "He hasn't cried once since coming out of the cold, Your Grace. He's just as hearty and hale as his brother, and took to nursing just as quickly."

"Hungry as a dragon, this one is," the nursemaid said fondly. Rhaegar glimpsed a head full of thick black hair as she passed her bundle off to the maester.

Rhaegar could not help his relieved sigh when he saw only a normal babe, one without fangs or deformed features. The babe blinked curiously up at him. Rhaenys had been born with bright blue eyes that had deepened into rich violet. Aegon's eyes promised the same. Their brother's eyes were not an indecisive infant blue, but a vivid emerald.

"Come hold your great-nephew, Ser Lewyn," Rhaegar said calmly.

Lewyn did not make even a token protest before taking the newborn babe reverently into his arms. "Such green eyes. I don't recall my sister's husband having them."

"It is not unheard of for children to take after ancestors even further back than their grandparents." Maester Corwyn hummed thoughtfully. "I also recall House Martell making many marriages outside of Dorne and even across the Narrow Sea throughout its long and esteemed history. Just because the majority of them take after Salty Dornishmen does not mean they all did."

The jealous brother in Rhaegar's dark dreams had inherited Elia's black eyes. Rhaegar knew he could raise _this_ babe to know his rightful place in the world. He would not lust for Aegon's sister-wives or the Iron Throne like Daemon Blackfyre. This son was not one of the three heads of his dragon, but he could be their Orys Baratheon, the loyal brother who aided them in their ambitions.

With how delicate the realm was, Rhaegar couldn't afford to stoke his father's suspicions by giving his son a 'bastard Baratheon' name.

"Jaehaerys," Rhaegar declared. "His name shall be Jaehaerys."

The first King Jaehaerys had been a conciliator, a peaceful man. The second King Jaehaerys had been Rhaegar's own grandfather, a gentle man who had posed no danger to anyone. It was a perfectly acceptable Targaryen name not even Aerys could find fault with.

* * *

"Aegon and Jaehaerys." Aerys mouthed the names like they were strange, foul curses. "Do you honor our ancestors or your brothers?"

Rhaegar's mouth went dry. He had not thought of the three short-lived brothers between himself and Viserys in years. Aerys had denounced Aegon and Daeron as bastards, for in his twisted mind the gods would not suffer a bastard of Rhaella's on the Iron Throne. Jaehaerys, though, the King had loved... until his premature death had pushed Aerys only further into madness.

"Both names have been used for centuries to honor some of the greatest members of our house," Rhaegar said carefully. "I pay respect to all who bore the names before."

"Including all of the princes who lived short lives and died indignant deaths?" Aerys sniffed. "Aye, I suppose those are handsome names to adorn funerary urns. This damned weather can kill both true dragons and Dornish spawn."

The throne room's windows glittered green from the wildfire the pyromancers burned along the walls of the Red Keep. The flickering shadows gave the obsidian dragon skulls hanging from the walls a life of their own. But not even their flames had prevented the Blackwater from freezing or the wind from shrieking through every crack in the castle walls.

Rhaegar said nothing. Rhaenys and her newborn brothers were safe and sound on Dragonstone. The freezing weather had been only one excuse of many to keep them from the Red Keep and their mother's funeral.

Aerys pulled his yellowed teeth into a snarl. "Listen, to how winter howls when it should have bowed to the warmth of spring. Perhaps the wolf will finally yield to the dragon when his bitch is married off."

From his soiled robes the King brandished a letter. Rhaegar fixated on the direwolf seal.

"Lyanna Stark is betrothed to Robert Baratheon."

"And her father a greedy savage who thought she could fuck her way into a prince's bed. You certainly proved them right at Harrenhal, fucking that bitch when you should have been hunting down that traitor." The King sneered. "No wonder he escaped."

"Oberyn Martell has not even been able to collect his sister's body yet, Your Grace. Can this not wait a while longer?"

"No need to play the grieving widower, my son," Aerys leered. "You certainly had no qualms about honoring your little bitch even when your wife was heavy with her Dornish whelps."

When Rhaegar had discovered Lord Stark's daughter beneath the helm of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, how she had fought to uphold the honor of a lowly crannogman, he had not been able to properly reward her valor. Proclaiming her his queen of love and beauty had been but his secret attempt to show her cunning and bravery had not gone unnoticed.

"Lord Stark and I both agree it is imperative the wedding happen as soon as possible. Your heirs are only a baby girl and newborn brats, after all. Look what happened to their mother. The succession must be more secure than that."

As if he had never declared Viserys heir before any trueborn son of Rhaegar's!

Rhaegar forced himself to bow. "If you wish it, Your Grace, then it shall be so. I am but your loyal son."

Aerys leaned forward, violet eyes sharper the swords of the Iron Throne, but said nothing.

Until the third head of the dragon was conceived, Rhaegar could not afford to risk himself. A hastened marriage to Lyanna Stark, whose ancestors had once proclaimed themselves the Kings of Winter, only hastened the King's own downfall.

 **I had a few chapters written up before posting the prologue. Don't expect every update to be this fast.**


	3. The Promise of Fire

**Please bear me if this chapter contains a bit of an info dump. I've got one hell of a foundation to build for this story. Anyone who wants to ask a question or engage in further discussion for this story can find a link to the forum on my profile.**

Aerys did not know when his court had started to rot from the inside out, but he knew it had started when Tywin Lannister, once his loyal friend, had begun to covet power beyond even that of the Hand.

The kingdom whispered Aerys was mad even when he smoked out and executed the rumor-mongers, but Aerys was not blind. Tywin had boldly requested his daughter marry the Prince of Dragonstone even as he made arrangements to betroth his heir to the younger Tully girl. The older trout was promised to Lord Stark's heir just as Lord Stark's bitch was promised to Robert Baratheon. Jon Arryn had only a nephew and a brood of lesser nieces, but he had fostered Robert Baratheon to turn him against his own royal cousins.

Such an unholy alliance between the realm's strongest houses gave them unprecedented influence over the Iron Throne.

Aerys had tried to subvert them as best he could. His attempts to seek a foreign bride for Rhaegar, one unconnected to the viper's nest of Westerosi alliances, had failed. Elia Martell's distant dragon blood provided him the excuse to tie his treacherous firstborn to the weakest kingdom instead of the wealthiest. Inducting Jaime Lannister into the Kingsguard had both robbed Tywin of his heir and provided Aerys a valuable hostage.

When Elia had died, Aerys had acted just in time to wed the Stark bitch to Rhaegar instead of Robert Baratheon. Despite its size, the North was a distant and sparsely populated land. Lyanna was a heathen and had few friends south of the Wall. Her presence at court coerced her father and his fellow conspirators into compliance.

Yet no matter how many serpents Aerys slew, more always slithered out of the woodwork. It was no accident Robert Baratheon had woken up the day after Rhaegar's second wedding with a deflowered Tyrell girl in his bed or married to her a month later.

Aerys had hoped to one day overthrow Rhaegar's influence entirely and appoint Viserys, his true heir, as the new Prince of Dragonstone.

If he could not cure the infection through gentle means, then he would burn it out. Rhaella and Viserys had been sent away. When Rhaegar marched into King's Landing for his bloodless revolution, the city would ignite, and the boy would finally die in the blaze that should have killed him at Summerhall.

But reckless Rhaegar had acted too soon. Rossart and his pyromancers had not had the time to seed King's Landing with wildfire. There was perhaps enough stored beneath the Red Keep to ensure anyone inside it burned.

The footsteps pounding down the passage were gaining. Aerys knew he could not reach the main stockpile in time. Rhaegar's men would kill him on the spot and claim he'd broken his neck during the chase. Perhaps he'd be confined to his chambers, stripped of his crown, and then smothered in his sleep when the realm had forgotten him.

Aerys was a dragon, and dragons did not run or die cowering in the dark. They punished all who thought differently with fang and fire.

 _"Fire cannot kill a dragon,"_ Aerion Brightflame had once said. Then he drank a cup of wildfire and died screaming.

But Aerion had been mad, a pretender prince, no true dragon. Aerys was a cornered king about to be captured and killed by his own treacherous firstborn. If the gods were to ever decree fire could transform a man into a dragon, this was that time.

Aerys fumbled with the small jar he had and cursed his trailing nails. "If I cannot rise from this a dragon, let me die as one. May Rhaegar's sons prove just as treacherous as he. May they deny him such a glorious end."

His pursuers rounded the corner. He laughed as he saw them headed by Ser Gerold Hightower.

"My own Lord Commander has come to kill me," Aerys said calmly. "Do not pretend you mean otherwise."

Ser Gerold raised his hands. "I mean no such thing, Your Grace. Your son-"

"Hah!" Aerys spat. "Rhaegar does not know the true meaning of 'Fire and Blood.' Allow me to show you."

He threw the jar of wildfire down at his own feet. Flames warm and green as summer erupted around him. Aerys laughed as his robes and beard caught alight. The fire was but cleansing him of his mortal impurities.

"Fire cannot kill a dragon."

Then he lunged upon the White Bull and showed him how dragons treated their prey.

* * *

Rhaegar was dismayed but unsurprised to learn his father had died laughing. After his imprisonment at Duskendale, the King had thought daggers behind every corner and every man out to get him. The aftermath of Duskendale had also kindled the King's pyromania that had ultimately consumed him.

Poor Ser Gerold had been identified by his formidable size and the charred remnants of his white armor. The terrible burns and horror stories of his few surviving men helped quell any rumors Rhaegar himself was behind the King's death.

However tragic the circumstances behind his coronation, Rhaegar was crowned and anointed without incident. He purposefully wore the humble gold band of the third Aegon, the same worn by his great-grandfather, the beloved King Aegon V. Then he could finally begin mending the bridges his father had burned.

Lyanna carried not only ice in her veins, the same ice she would pass down to Visenya, but the blood of the Starks. Brandon, her oldest brother, had killed himself in a drunken riding accident mere days after her royal betrothal was announced. Her second brother, Eddard, had thus married Brandon's betrothed. The birth of Robb Stark to Catelyn Tully had firmly bound her family to Winterfell and thus to the Iron Throne.

Rhaegar had briefly considered naming Rickard his Hand but had ultimately discarded the thought. Most people south of the Neck already complained there was already too much Northern influence at court. He settled for naming Rickard master of laws. Hoster Tully was a southron, a member of the Faith, and a skilled politician. He made a far less controversial Hand of the King.

Tywin Lannister's list of grievances against the crown were many and arguably justified. Releasing Jaime from his service (for the new Lord Commander, Barristan Selmy, had reluctantly approved of such) and naming Kevan Lannister master of coin had only mollified him somewhat. At least Jaime's swift marriage to Lysa Tully prevented him from protesting Hoster's appointment.

Oberyn Martell bayed for king's blood, but it was levelheaded Doran that ruled in Dorne. Rhaegar assured him his second marriage to Lyanna had been quick for all of their liking, but no one could replace Elia. No matter the children born to his second wife, of course Aegon and Jaehaerys, Elia's sons, were first in line for the Iron Throne. Doran had requested Rhaenys or Jaehaerys be fostered in Sunspear. Despite the age difference, he had even suggested a betrothal between Arianne and Jaehaerys.

Rhaegar couldn't risk Rhaenys. Jaehaerys may have been a superfluous son in the eyes of the prophecy, but in the eyes of the realm he was second-in-line to the crown. Dorne would not turn his own son against him. Now that the succession had been fixed, Rhaegar had been comfortable offering Viserys as a suitable alternative to both fostering in Sunspear and a betrothal to Arianne. Doran was proving amenable to it.

Mace Tyrell was a solid loyalist, though a bit too vocal in how beautiful little Margaery was. His good-brother, Lord Paxter Redwyne, made a fine master of ships.

Robert Baratheon had reportedly been furious upon learning his betrothal to Lyanna had been broken. Jon Arryn had calmed him down enough to attend their wedding. Rhaegar dimly remembered his cousin drinking away his sorrows. It was no surprise to him Rhaegar had thus stolen young Janna Tyrell's maidenhead. They were wed a month later and their daughter born eight months after.

 _And they're already expecting a second child! Why not Lyanna?_

Rhaegar had come dangerously close to losing a second wife in childbirth. The maesters assured him that, with rest, she would be capable of bearing more children in the future. For now, their dark-haired and gray-eyed son remained their only child. Lyanna had wanted to name him Jon for some ancestor of hers. Rhaegar had agreed with the sentiment; Jon was a plain and solid name, one that could belong to a maester or septon.

Despite her age or her history with the King, Rhaella did not call for moontea when she discovered the last child of Aerys's rooted in her womb. After a long labor, she had welcomed a healthy daughter, Daenerys. The arrival of his long-awaited little sister decades too late only emphasized how far Jon was from the Visenya of Rhaegar's dreams. The dragon still awaited its third head.

With a day of holding court winding down, it was all too easy for Rhaegar to lose himself in his brooding.

His last audience member of the day entered. She was taller than most of his knights. When she dipped into a graceful curtsey, the cut of her red dress emphasized both the swell of her breasts and the ruby choker that glittered at her throat. Exotic as she was, the King's interest was barely piqued.

"You are a priestess of the red god, are you not?"

"The one god there is, Your Grace," said Melisandre of Asshai. Her copper hair fell in a curtain around her heart-shaped face. "I have followed R'hllor for years beyond count."

"My father welcomed a red priest into his hall, once," Rhaegar stated dismissively. "Surely even you have heard of the Wildfire King? Still, Thoros of Myr could not convert my father, who was drawn like a moth to the flame. Last I heard, Thoros is a favored companion of my cousin's who worships only the wine bottle. Why do you think your message will be any better received here?"

"I did not come for you, Your Grace, but Azor Ahai."

Where he heard that name before? "That is the prophesied hero of your faith, is it not? I cannot profess to know much about him."

"My faith is the world's, Your Grace, for the world can either embrace the light or submit to the darkness. Long have I prayed to R'hllor for a glimpse of the man destined to deliver us from the Great Other. At long last, I was granted clarity." Melisandre's red eyes fearlessly gazed into his. "When the red star bleeds and darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst salt and smoke to wake dragons out of stone."

Rhaegar shivered in a way he hadn't since first cradling the promised prince in his arms. His gaze caught Ser Arthur's as he rose from the Iron Throne.

"Come with me."

* * *

As Ser Arthur Dayne led the way through the Red Keep's twisting passages, his torch their only illumination against the darkness, Rhaegar told Melisandre of Summerhall.

"My great-grandfather, Aegon, was a kind king, a weak king. The realm preyed upon his kindness until he feared for not only his life, but the lives of his loved ones. Aegon became convinced our family's salvation rested within the eggs we'd jealously hoarded since the death of the last dragon. Since their extinction, our realm was wracked by strife, and even the most petty of rebellions threatened to dislodge us from the Iron Throne. Only in the shadow of dragons had Westeros known true peace. Only in the shadow of dragons could we be safe again."

In the flickering torchlight, Melisandre's ruby seemed to glow with a light of its own. "How did he think to hatch them?"

"Once, whenever a new babe was born into my house, a dragon egg would be laid into their cradles. It was always hoped this egg would hatch into that babe's dragon. If the egg never hatched, tradition demanded that egg be burned alongside them on their funeral pyre. When the dragons died and the eggs became too precious, this custom died out."

Or so his Uncle Aemon had reconstructed from the few sources available to him. Records of their house's dragonlore were fragmented. He believed much of their family's secrets had been passed down verbally and then lost in the Dance of Dragons. Baelor's fear of heretical texts and other such disasters had decimated what little had been written down.

"Aegon came to believe he had but six loyal kinsmen left to him; his three surviving children, my parents, and me, their unborn child. That gave him seven Targaryens and seven dragon eggs. The septons assured him seven was a powerful number, for the seven faces of our Faith. Aegon called for his family to gather at Summerhall, his dear childhood home. It was there he intended to hatch a new generation of dragons. I, the future of our family, was to be born there too.

"My parents were unsure what what wrong. If they ever knew or suspected, they never told me. Whatever happened, Summerhall burned even as I was born. Aegon and his oldest son, Duncan, didn't make it out alive. Lost with them and many others were the seven dragon eggs. Jaehaerys, my grandfather, took possession of what remained of our dragon eggs and died three years later. Shaera, my grandmother, went to her grave insisting he had ordered them all destroyed for the grief they caused our family. So did my parents claim and so did I believe."

The section of wall they stopped before had once been adorned with a fresco of the Targaryen dragon. Scouring the Red Keep for wildfire caches had uncovered the heavy oak door and the secret chamber concealed behind it.

Ser Arthur passed the torch to Rhaegar's expectant hand. Then the King led them inside.

Objects more valuable than jewels glittered in the torchlight.

"Perhaps Jaehaerys could not bear to destroy them and so sought to lock them away forever. Perhaps this chamber dates back to the Dance and a time when my ancestors worried for the future of our dragons and was forgotten in the turmoil."

Rhaegar's gaze settled upon the egg that had first drawn his eye. The silver and gold shell had veins of fiery colors that gleamed in the torchlight.

Melisandre held out a hand. When Rhaegar passed the torch to her the flame flared up, illuminating the entire chamber and its priceless contents.

The egg's substantial weight prompted Rhaegar to lift it with both hands. When Aerys had ruled, charlatans had visited court and peddled what they'd claimed to be dragon eggs from Asshai or salvaged from the Valyrian Freehold. Their eggs had been pretty but hollow, light enough for Rhaegar to pick them up and feel no promise of fire inside.

Though this egg was heavy with life, the shell was cold and hard as stone. Whatever spark slumbered inside had long since been extinguished.

"They are not dead, Your Grace, only dormant." When Melisandre reverently brushed the shell with her fingertips, the egg warmed in Rhaegar's hands. "They are but embers that need a spark to kindle their flames."

 _"Fire and Blood,"_ whispered the ghost of his father.

Aerys had ordered the charlatans burned alongside their false treasures on the off-chance a true dragon could hatch from the ashes. Rhaegar wondered how right his sentiment had been.

 _"Promise me, Rhaegar."_

"Whatever sacrifice your magic demands, I am no kin-slayer. You are not to touch my family; not my mother, not Viserys, not Daenerys, not my wife, and certainly not my children."

Melisandre withdrew her hand and the egg grew cold and lifeless. "There are but two gods, Your Grace. R'hllor is the source of all that is light and life. The Other, whose name must not be said, is all that is cold and dark and evil." Her burning eyes pierced his own. "Surely it is no coincidence Azor Ahai was born with a twin whose hair is black as night? A twin who took his mother's life?"

"That is the King's son you're threatening, red witch!" Ser Arthur roared. "How dare-"

"Enough," Rhaegar said, before Arthur could draw Dawn and before Melisandre's flames could do anything more than flash dangerously bright.

"I cannot see the dark-haired twin in the flames, Your Grace," Melisandre warned. "If he is not the champion of the Great Other then he is an outlier, one outside of the R'hllor's control. Did his birth not already delay the birth of your daughter? I saw her in the flames, your Visenya; brilliant as flame and fearless as a dragon. Azhor Ahai shall need her."

"Delay?" Rhaegar latched onto the word. "Then she shall still be born?"

"If you allow me to act soon, Your Grace, your first dragon shall wake as she is born. Is that not a powerful portent for your people?"

For the sake of the realm, for the sake of the very world, Rhaegar could not deny her. The dragon required its third head. Aegon and his brides required dragons to burn away the night.

"Dragonstone is the ancestral seat of my house. Our dragons thrived on the Dragonmont as they had nowhere else. It is certainly a warmer place to hatch dragons than in the cold darkness of King's Landing. The surrounding villages are also teeming with dragonspawn and their descendants. The bastards of kings are still king's blood, are they not?"

"They are your, Your Grace, and the innate fires of the Dragonmont can compensate for any... dilution."

Rhaegar's heart soared. "We are in agreement, then? My blood is not to be harmed?"

"I shall harm neither your Queen nor Queen Mother, nor the blood of Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys, so I swear upon the flames of R'hllor." The torchlight pulsed with the power of the red woman's vow. The light flared again when she swore to harm neither Aegon nor Rhaenys nor Visenya. "Neither shall I harm Prince Jon or... Prince Jaehaerys... so I swear upon the flames of R'hllor."

Rhaegar nodded firmly. Then he both ordered Ser Arthur to secrecy, especially on exactly how the dragons would be resurrected. Arthur Dayne hesitated for only a moment. He swore his obedience upon Dawn.

"Excellent," the King said. "We set sail for Dragonstone immediately."

He assumed that was the end of it.


	4. The Resurrection

**Minor touch-ups to this chapter. Harry's bit was expanded the most.  
**

Dragonstone was scarce on trees, save for those in Aegon's Garden. Melisandre had suggested those in the Red Keep's godswood, particularly its oaken heart tree, for a fine pyre.

The red priestess proclaimed there was only one god, but Rhaegar could not place so much faith in a woman he knew so little about. If the horrors that ever lurked beyond the Wall overwhelmed the Night's Watch, the North would be the kingdom's next line of defense. Rhaegar could not risk the loyalties of such vital people, not until Melisandre fulfilled at least one of her lofty promises.

Even the Faith was forced to acknowledge theirs were but the _new_ gods. Lyanna followed the old gods and was thus potentially under their domain. Rhaegar would risk many things to wake a dragon, but not the life of his unborn Visenya.

Rhaegar had asked Melisandre if trees from the kingswood would suffice and she had grudgingly admitted so. Only the best trees of ash, oak, and hawthorn had been harvested. Old woods witch lore claimed these woods were both strong burners and strong in magic.

While the wood-cutters worked, he sailed to Dragonstone to check upon his family. Viserys eagerly raced up to him, Rhaegar's own children following close behind. He was pleased to discover how big Rhaenys and Aegon were growing. Jon and Jaehaerys also thrived. Rhaella had recovered from her difficult birth and Daenerys was a pretty babe, almost as pretty as his Visenya would be.

Lyanna had also recovered her strength from birthing Jon. She welcomed her King eagerly into their bed. Her ardor had quickly conceived their daughter for she missed her moon's blood a mere month after his return.

A fierce storm had raged the night of Daenerys' birth and had sent most ships in Dragonstone's waters to the bottom of the narrow sea. Those in the harbors of King's Landing had better weathered the storm. When the time came, Rhaegar had no difficulty recruiting a ship to ferry Melisandre and a cargo of lumber across.

The Dragonmont was riddled with vents and tunnels. Rhaegar looked to the lofty caverns where the ancient dragons of his house had once roosted. They were located higher on the volcano, the paths to them steep and treacherous. No curious smallfolk could stumble upon them there.

As Lyanna's belly swelled, so did the pyre. Melisandre ordered each piece of wood carefully arranged. She anointed them in oils and rituals that made them better accepted to R'hllor's power. Melisandre promised him fire. Rhaegar would offer her up the proper blood.

Dragonstone teemed with dragonspawn, the bastards of many Targaryens that had come before him. Rhaegar suspected he even had half-siblings amongst the smallfolk. There were many who had the right amount of king's blood pumping in their veins.

Rhaegar briefly considered selecting a condemned criminal, one already destined for execution. He ultimately decided he did not want such a foul soul tainting the birth of the first dragon in nigh over a century.

Instead he searched among the island's elderly. Aemsley had weathered decades as a fisherman until his stooped back could no longer bear the work. He had outlived all his children and his granddaughter tired of caring for him. He also claimed Aegon the Unworthy for a grandfather. If the old Blackfyre claims were indeed true, perhaps even Rhaegar's own royal ancestor, Maekar I, could not claim the same honor this haggard old man did.

When Aemsley learned what his sacrifice might bring, he eagerly offered himself up, even before he learned his last moons would be lived in luxury.

Rhaegar wanted his family to never know the desperate measures he'd taken. He secretly paid to host Aemsley in one of Dragonstone's few fine houses. The man never wanted for food nor drink nor... entertainment. Ser Arthur and Ser Jonothor Darry, the Kingsguards whom he trusted most, were ordered to keep a discrete eye on him.

When Lyanna's labor started, Rhaegar rode out with Ser Arthur at his side. Ser Jonothor, the less recognizable of the two, was sent out in disguise to retrieve Aemsley.

The cavern always reeked of smoke and brimstone that wafted up from the Dragonmont's heart. Dragons had once crawled down that tunnel to bask in the volcano's extreme heat. Human longs could not withstand such heat or toxic air, though Rhaegar could tolerate it better than most men. Melisandre did not even appear affected by it. For the sake of the laborers, the pyre had been constructed quite close to the cavern's mouth. Only its isolated location prevented it from being easily spotted.

When Rhaegar and Ser Arthur arrived, Melisandre did not acknowledge them. She remained hunched over the pyre, applying oils and whispering in an alien tongue.

"The path is quite steep, Ser Arthur," the King said. "Perhaps you should help Ser Jonothor with his charge?"

Ser Arthur dipped his head and obeyed.

Carefully, Rhaegar placed the small chest he carried upon the ground and removed his dragon egg from it. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but its shell no longer felt like cold stone. It was warm with the promise of life.

The round-faced and giddy old man the knights helped stumble into the cavern was far from the grim and gaunt man who'd first accepted his King's bargain.

Melisandre glided over to his side. "I have spoken with him many times over the last months, Your Grace. He has accepted the light of R'hllor into his life and thus has been blessed with peace for his final moments."

From Aemsley's flushed face and stumbling steps, Rhaegar more suspected wine than religious resolve.

"Help him onto the pyre," the red woman ordered.

The knights looked to their King. Rhaegar nodded.

Ser Jonothor grunted from the effort as he hoisted Aemsley with him onto the pyre. He held a wineskin to the old man's lips. One long draught and Aemsley fell limp in his arms. Rhaegar had ordered the wine mixed with milk of the poppy. Even as he burned, Aemsley would know nothing but peaceful oblivion. Ser Jonothor gently laid the old man down on what had become his funeral pyre. Then he and Ser Arthur returned to their King's side.

"The egg, Your Grace."

Rhaegar's fingers traced the egg's fiery veins of color for a final time. If this attempt failed, there were many more eggs secreted away in the Red Keep, but he knew he would always remember this one.

Melisandre cradled the egg like a babe as she ascended the pyre. She placed it above Aemsley's heart, lifting his arms to hold it in place. Then she bent down to kiss his lips. Her ruby choker pulsed. When she pulled her lips away, Aemsley's mouth was smoking. As Melisandre stepped down from the pyre, every foostep left behind a blossom of flame.

As her feet touched solid stone, she did not back away from the pyre's growing heat. Her raised arms beckoned the flames higher.

Ser Arthur and Ser Jonothor lept back as the pyre erupted into a blaze of reds and golds. Rhaegar did not shy away, no matter the sweat pouring down his back or the heavy smoke in his nostrils, for he was the blood of the dragon.

The fire swirled harmlessly around Melisandre as it engulfed all else. Above the roaring inferno, Rhaegar swore he heard her laugh.

"Step back, Your Grace!" A glance backward revealed Ser Arthur had unsheathed his sword. Dawn's pale steel gleamed red in the light. "It's not safe!"

"Keep away, good friend," Rhaegar urged, "for these flames shall burn you."

Several sparks landed on him but spluttered out on his sweat-soaked clothes.

For a lifetime, the fire raged, and the world held its breath.

Then came the sound of the world shattering.

As the flames died down, Rhaegar's heart pulled him forward. Kneeling in the ash, he flung charred wood and bones aside. His fingers blistered from the heat.

He found her curled up in the remnants of a rib cage. She raised her head to survey him with bright amber eyes.

Rhaegar wanted to weep as he took her into his arms, but the fire had burned his tears away. Her silver scales were touched with gold. Reverently, he traced the fiery veins of color that mottled her gold wing membranes.

"Solthys," he breathed, for he already knew her name.

* * *

"My baby," the poor little wolf queen sobbed. _"She_ killed my baby."

Pycelle tutted as he washed the blood and birthing waters from his hands. "See to it that she gets something for that fever, Maester Corwyn. She's already had quite the battle today."

Corwyn might have been Master of Dragonstone, but Pycelle was Grand Maester of the entire realm. He had served the royal family since the time of the King's grandfather. Corwyn might have been hopelessly inexperienced by the Queen's condition today, but Pycelle had once helped both Queen Shaera and Queen Rhaella through similar circumstances. It was only by his presence that the lives of both mother and child had been saved today.

"Of course, Grand Maester. What of...?" He hopelessly glanced at the afterbirth and all that had come after.

"Burn it all," the Queen Mother commanded before Pycelle could. She remained seated at the young Queen's side, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her flushed face. "I trust you remember what to do, Pella."

"Of course, Your Grace." Pella had faithfully served Rhaella since before she and Aerys had ever been crowned. She was far from the hysterical girl Pycelle had been forced to order out the chamber when the then-Princess Shaera had suffered such misfortune.

"Will my good-daughter live, Pycelle?"

"I am almost certain of it, Your Grace. Unfortunately, I am also certain the Queen will never bring another child to term."

Rhaella's condition had not been so terrible. Pycelle had considered it only a minor miracle she had gone on to have yet more children, especially Princess Daenerys. Queen Lyanna's condition, however, was even more grievous than Shaera's had been. For her, there would be no forthcoming miracle births.

The Queen Mother nodded firmly. "Then you would be better served in checking upon my grandchildren, Grand Maester."

Pycelle bowed and duly slipped into the next chamber. When it became apparent what the Queen's condition had been, he had banished the nurse maid here to prevent her from going into hysterics.

"How fares the little princess?"

The nurse maid winced in discomfort at how fervently the princess nursed. "Took to the tit better than my own daughter ever did."

The King's second daughter had come into the world screeching. A quick check confirmed her health remained just as vital. Pycelle hoped his news on the prince would be just as positive. The King had already lost one child today. Better he not lose two.

Pycelle had been absorbed in delivering the princess when a maid had burst into the room shrieking Prince Jaehaerys was dead. He'd sent Maester Corwyn to see how true the girl's hysterics were.

When it became apparent the Queen was also delivering a stillborn twin, and the prince's condition had been over-exaggerated, Corwyn had been young enough to race back to the birthing bed.

The twin princes had been chasing each other in some little game when the younger had slipped and fell on a narrow set of stairs. Prince Aegon, alarmed by the blood, ran off screaming that his brother was dead. Maester Corwyn believed Prince Jaehaerys had suffered only a minor head injury and would shortly regain consciousness, but Pycelle needed to confirm it with his own eyes.

Since the incident the royal children, including Prince Viserys, had been confined to the nursery. Jaehaerys had been tossed into the bed of the closest guest chamber from where he'd fallen.

Pycelle entered the room to find the young prince still unconscious. His unruly black hair had been shaved away and a bandage wrapped tightly around his head.

From Prince Aegon's testimony, he'd been chasing Jaehaerys up the stairs when Jaehaerys had slipped on a stone step and smashed his head against another. Head wounds bled quite profusely, which had alarmed both Prince Aegon and the serving girl who'd first heard his cries. Aside from one wound to the forehead and some bruising, Maester Corwyn had declared the prince had suffered no serious injury.

Unwrapping the bandage, Pycelle observed the wound. Jaehaerys had taken the blow almost to the center of his forehead. Maester Corwyn had been forced to stitch it shut. When it healed, Pycelle suspected the prince would have a scar shaped curiously like a lightning bolt and an embarrassing story on how he'd received it.

Pycelle saw no swelling or any other sign of internal injury. He re-bandaged the wound.

Until the prince awoke and could be properly examined, Pycelle could not be truly sure how deep the damage extended, but he was confident it was only superficial.

* * *

 _-only a broomstick stood between him and falling - the dragon mother screamed her rage as he sharply turned -_

 **- _west, Father, we need to go west. here there's only-_**

 _-he clung to the dragon's back as it clawed through brick and stone to freedom - he whooped in exhilaration as they reached the open sky -_

 _ **-the Red Queen shrieked her challenge and the Black King thundered back-  
**_  
 _-I said, "Bow."- he stood before a snake-man with burning eyes, and he would **not** \- "Avada Kedavra!" - _

**_-dragons dreamed and dragons danced and dragons died-_**

 _-the two-faced man was screaming at his touch, for his touch was fire - the basilisk venom was in his veins, and it was burning -  
_

 **- _amuse me-  
_**

 _-no, **he** was burning - that Thing had thrown him and now all that he was and ever would be was **burning -**_

Harry Potter woke up from what could have been memory or nightmare, and he woke up screaming. A strange man in brown robes swore, holding him down as he thrashed. He struggled hard, but the man was a giant compared to him.

"Calm down, Jaehaerys," said a soft, stern voice. Harry didn't know why, but he listened.

A middle-aged woman in a fine green gown stepped into view. Draco Malfoy's hair was white blond, but hers was whiter than snow and tied back in a braid. One looked from her violet eyes sent the brown-robed man scurrying. Then she smiled down at him. Harry didn't know her...

...And yet, a part of him did.

"Grandmother," he blurted out. His voice sounded small and much too young. He was only three namedays old, after all.

"That's right, Harry," Rhaella said kindly as she reached down to stroke his chin. "Do you remember what happened?"

He'd been Harry James Potter. He'd been Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen without ever remembering he'd ever been anyone else. Now he held memories of both, though Harry Potter's memories had the lion's share of it all.

"Aegon was Balerion and he was chasing me," Harry said slowly. Pulling the memory out of his head was like pulling out a tooth. "I fell." One hand went to feel the bandage wrapped around his head.

"Don't play with it, sweetling." Harry's hand fell back to his side. "Maester Corwyn says you might have a scar, but otherwise you're just fine." Rhaella's gaze fell upon the brown-robed man. "Isn't that right, maester?"

Corwyn was immediately at his side, tipping his head this way and that. Having been examined by Madame Pomfrey too many times to count, Harry didn't flinch. He easily rattled off every question the maester asked him and proved he didn't have brain damage... not the kind of damage maesters could cure, anyway.

"Whenever you feel ready, Harry, your father wants to see you."

Harry blinked. Father? James Potter had died years ago and a world away.

Jaehaerys' memories insisted _he_ had a father, Rhaegar, one who was now also Harry's. He had an uncle, Viserys. Dany was his aunt, a year old and nicer than Aunt Petunia had ever been. He had a big sister and a big brother. _He_ was a big brother.

"The baby! Are Lya and the baby okay?"

Or was it babies? Lya had called him Harry when she made him swear to keep it a secret that Jon would be a big brother twice over.

Rhaella smiled, but it didn't quite hide her exhaustion... or her sorrow. It might have been enough to fool a small child, but now Harry was older than he looked. "You have a little sister, Harry. Her name is Visenya. Lyanna is sleeping right now, but she'll be happy to see you when she wakes."

Harry sat bolt upright. "Can I see da- er, Father now?"

Jaehaerys ached to see Lya, but Harry bit back the childish demand to see her anyway. If Jaehaerys couldn't have Lya, then he wanted his father.

A strange expression crossed his grandmother's face before she nodded and left the room.

While waiting for Rhaegar, Harry leaned back and contemplated this new life. He had thought himself gone forever when that... Thing left him to burn for eternity inside of a-

 _Don't think about it!_

Now, not only was Harry not dead, but a _prince_ in some strange new world. A very young (and very new) part of himself longed for his father in a way Harry hadn't since he had last gazed into the Mirror of Erised.

It was not James Potter that part of him wanted, but Rhaegar Targaryen, just as it wanted Lya, Jon, or Dany. Jaehaerys knew his family could always be relied upon just as Harry had once known the Dursleys could always come up with a new way to ruin his day.

When someone knocked upon his door, Harry didn't hesitate when he called for them to come in. Perhaps it was Jaehaerys talking, but he couldn't remember the last time he felt so _free_ on the inside or excited for what was about to come next.

Jaehaerys had always taken it for granted that Rhaegar was a King. With Harry Potter's memories, he looked upon his father with new eyes.

Even without his crown, Rhaegar looked like a king. He wore a fine red-and-black doublet. He carried himself like Lucius Malfoy, but looked regal instead of arrogant. His silver-gold hair was tied back and his eyes the same purple as Rhaella's. Harry had always been told he was the spitting image of James Potter. Jaehaerys had never paid much attention to his reflection, but now Harry wondered how his new face resembled Rhaegar's. Did he resemble the father Jaehaerys idolized or the mother he would never meet?

"How do you feel, Jaehaerys? The maesters told me you took quite the fall."

"It wasn't that bad," he said, suddenly self-conscious of the bandage around his head.

Harry had been studying his father's face so intently he almost overlooked the dragon hatchling in his arms. His mouth dropped. Viserys had proudly declared their family to be the blood of the dragon. Surely _that_ wasn't his baby sister?

"Is.. she..."

"This is Solthys," the King declared. "She is my dragon and the future of this house."

Rhaegar smiled proudly down at the dragon in his arms. It radiated the same love the ghost of James Potter had once given his son before he let go of the Resurrection Stone.

Harry thought long and hard to remember the time Rhaegar had last looked upon Jaehaerys like that. His heart sunk for the boy (for... himself?) when he could not.

 **And so dies Harry's dreams of a perfect, happy family :D Any questions you have can be asked on this story's forum, as I'm trying not to clog up the actual story with rambling author's notes. Find the link in my profile.**


	5. The Seeds

**The first couple segments of this chapter are the most changed, especially as we remain Rhaella's point of view. Questions and comments can be directed to this story's forum. Find the link on my profile.**

Rhaella gazed upon the living miracle her son presented to her and thought only her grandfather's dragon dreams had been fulfilled decades too late. She would have wept if the fires of Summerhall had not burned her tears away.

Rhaegar visited Lyanna after ensuring Jaehaerys was awake and aware. He held her hand, Solthys in his free arm, and nodded when Pycelle confirmed both Lyanna's survival and infertility. He smiled at news of Visenya's vigorous health. Rhaella knew her firstborn well, but she could not identify the expression on his face when he was told her twin had not survived.

Rhaegar left Lyanna's side not long after. Once Rhaella was assured of her grandchildren's health she did not leave her vigil.

In the early hours of the morning Lyanna's fever broke and her fitful thrashing eased into a deep sleep. It was near noon when her eyes snapped open. Her hands flew to her distended stomach and she screamed for her babes.

Rhaella ordered her granddaughter carried in. Visenya's furious squalling didn't stop until she was firmly fastened to her mother's breast.

Lyanna winced at the suckling, but her eyes never lost their frantic gleam. "Her twin. Where is her twin?"

"He did not make it, sweetling."

Lyanna howled her grief and denial. Then she cried like a babe herself while Rhaella held her close and stroked her hair. Visenya complained only when her suckling was disrupted.

"My son," Lyanna whispered, eyes widening. "I saw him. H-He was..."

"Stillborn," Rhaella said firmly. "Pycelle and Pella will attest to it."

Lyanna's gray eyes were colder than winter. "He had _wings,_ good-mother."

She took a deep breath. "Yes. So did my Aemon."

Her good-daughter's brow furrowed. "You had no son named Aemon."

Rhaella sighed. "After three miscarriages, a babe quickened in my womb for the first time in almost a decade not long after Queen Shaera died. If the babe were a girl, Aerys and I wished to name her Shaena in our mother's honor. She was stillborn, but perfectly formed, and buried with a princess' honors. Aerys and I mourned her. Two years we were blessed with a living boy, our Daeron, and quickly conceived again. Even after we lost Daeron, this new babe had quickened. If the babe was a girl, she was to be named for me. If he was a boy, he was to be named for our Great-Uncle Aemon, who had lived where so many other dragons had died."

"And then you bore a monster."

"Aemon was no more a monster than clever little Tyrion Lannister, or my sweet Great-Uncle Rhaegel, or your own son. Aerys could not declare our own son an abomination when our own little sibling had been born with a similar appearance."

Their parents had never been satisfied with only two children. After a long string of miscarriages, a babe had quickened in their mother's womb again. Shaera had insisted on her entire family being there for the birth. Aerys had been able to wait outside. As a girl, Rhaella had been in the room to witness when her mother bore a child so deformed its sex could not be determined.

Maester Pycelle had blamed her father's 'bad blood.' It was a taint he'd handed down to both of his children and now to Rhaegar.

Lyanna sniffled as the tears came again. "What shall become of my son?"

Aerys had ordered Aemon's body burned and his ashes scattered to the sea. He had ordered Pycelle to record only a stillbirth so that the name and gender of the child could be lost to time. Years later Aerys had proclaimed all of Rhaella's stillborn and short-lived children as bastards and had them stricken from the family records. Only upon her brother's death had Rhaella had been able to restore their children, including Aemon, to their proper place in history.

"I ordered to Pella to burn his body. His ashes shall be interred beneath Dragonstone, as is befitting to a son of the royal house. He will be recorded only as a stillborn. You need only to grant him a proper name for us to remember him by."

"Valarr," Lyanna said after a long moment of silence. "His name would have been Valarr."

Rhaella told her son as such, when he planned only festivities to celebrate both the birth of a healthy daughter and the hatching of the first dragon in decades, that he had a child of his own to mourn as well.

Rhaegar blinked, as if he had forgotten Valarr had existed at all, and then assured her a small ceremony had already been planned.

When Jaehaerys was well enough to leave his bed Rhaegar gathered his family in the sept. Candles were lit in thanks to the Warrior for Jaehaerys' recovery and then to the Mother and Crone for Lyanna's continued health. The Maiden was honored for Visenya's healthy birth and the Smith for granting them all the strength to survive. The Father's mercy was acknowledged, for he had allowed the Stranger to claim but one life where he could have taken four.

The candles for Valarr were placed before the Stranger's altar. New mothers and newborn babes were the Mother's charges.

The stillbirths, named or not, were death's domain.

* * *

"Drogon!" Daenerys demanded imperiously. It had become her favorite word since Rhaegar had briefly shown her Solthys some weeks prior.

"Here you are, sweetling."

As soon as Rhaella bent down low enough, her daughter snatched the felt dragon from her hands and hugged it close. Daenerys had thrown the first Drogon out a tower to see if it could fly and the sea had swallowed it up. She thankfully didn't realize her second dragon had darker red wings than the original.

Rhaella had been crafting such dragons since long before Aerys had burned any toys for his children he had not personally seen constructed. Rhaegar had quickly outgrown his in favor carrying around a book. Viserys still slept with his under his pillow. Rhaenys now lavished her attention upon her young cat, Balerion. Jon insisted on dragging both his dragon and direwolf wherever he went. Aegon and Jaehaerys had once always reenacted their own Dance of the Dragons.

"Mother." Viserys stood in the doorway of the nursery. "Harry is acting strange."

Daenerys was too engrossed in her Drogon to care she was left under the nursemaid's watch. Rhaella followed her son into the hall. "Strange how, Viserys?"

A grown man could never be the same after suffering a head injury and Jaehaerys was but a child. If the fall had truly rendered her grandson mad, Rhaella prayed it was the gentle sort, and not the kind that had afflicted her brother.

"Harry was asking a lot of questions about our family, so I took him to see the portraits. I told him all I could about Elia and Rhaegar. When I got to you and Father, he grabbed my arm and asked if you were really Father's sister. He lost control when I tried telling him about Grandmother and Grandfather." Viserys looked beseechingly up at her. "Harry must have heard it all before, Mother. Why is he all strange about it now?"

"Jaehaerys didn't grow up in the Red Keep like you did, sweetling. He never even met your father. This could all be quite new to him." Rhaella smiled reassuringly. "I'll go and talk to him. Now, why don't you go and let Daenerys show you her new Drogon?"

Viserys revered Rhaegar, but adored his little sister like no other. With the rest of her grandchildren absorbed in one of Pella's fanciful tales, Rhaella left the nursery behind and climbed to the hall of portraits.

Save for House Baratheon, the royal family was the youngest of the great houses of Westeros. The Tullys and Tyrells may have been uplifted in the wake of the Conquest, but even they had lineages that stretched back millennium. Much of House Targaryen's earliest history had been lost in the centuries following Aenar's escape from the Doom. Most of their surviving records and heirlooms had been transferred to the Red Keep. Dragonstone's finest collection of treasures were perhaps the portraits of many prior rulers of Dragonstone and their relatives. Several painters always remained on retainer to guard against any damage dealt by the island's damp air and the cold winter drafts.

However precious the collection may have been, Rhaella still wished the one of her and Aerys to be burned. They had stood for the portrait with their infant son mere weeks after Summerhall had burned and their father had ascended the throne, thus making them Prince and Princess Consort of Dragonstone. Aerys had been a boy of but five-and-ten, at an age where his build and facial features had still closely resembled his own. Stricken by grief, they both appeared as pale and fragile as the newborn babe Rhaella cradled in her arms.

Jaehaerys stood in front of it. His gaze was far too brooding for a boy who had yet to see his fourth nameday.

Rhaella stopped in front of Elia's portrait. "This one does not do your mother justice."

Fresh from Sunspear, Elia had been positively radiant her wedding day. By the time she had stood for this portrait on Dragonstone, weeks of the cold sea wind had already sapped the Dornish warmth from her skin. The tight and high-necked black dress made her look sick and severe.

"Were she and my father related too?" he muttered bitterly.

"All noble families are related if one goes back far enough. Your mother descended from the first Daenerys. You and your father are both distant cousins to Lyanna through Betha Blackwood, my grandmother, who was the older sister to Lyanna's great-grandmother."

Jaehaerys scowled at her. "Marrying your cousin and marrying your _sister_ aren't the same thing."

"No," Rhaella sighed. "It is not. Sibling marriage is an old Valyrian tradition. We are the only house in Westeros that still practices it."

Her grandfather had been promised to his sister, but had married Betha Blackwood for love. Their children had all been betrothed to the sons and daughters of other powerful houses. As Aegon V had once defied his family's wishes for his future, so had two of his children defied his. Once Shaera had been pregnant with Aerys, her grandfather had no other choice but to allow her and Jaehaerys to marry.

"I won't. Not Rhaenys, not Visenya, not even Dany. You'd have to kill me before I'd marry any of them."

When Rhaegar had been but ten, he had put his books aside and vowed to become a warrior. Rhaella had not thought her brilliant little boy capable, but he had proved her wrong. Jaehaerys was not even half the age his father had been. Rhaella knew he was just as resolute.

"You will not have to, sweetling, I promise you." Rhaella's answer was honest. One of Rhaegar's first acts as King had been to formalize the betrothal between Rhaenys and Aegon. Daenerys had been promised to Tywin's grandson practically before the boy's umbilical had even been cut. For Jaehaerys, Rhaegar had sent messengers across the narrow sea in search of girls of eastern stock.

Since the news of Solthys had spread, many more offers had flooded in than Rhaegar had ever sent out. Archons and magisters offered dowries of Valyrian steel if only Jaehaerys have a dragon or dragon egg of his own. Even greater gifts were vowed for a daughter or sister of Rhaegar, if only she too rode a dragon like he did.

Jaehaerys blinked up at her. "Did you and... your brother... love each other?"

"I loved Aerys as a brother, but our parents and grandfather wished us to wed, and so we did." Even if Rhaella had never stopped wishing she or her brother had possessed the courage to run off with another as Duncan had done with his gods-damned Jenny. "Our parents, however, loved each other in a different way. Aegon and Rhaenys may grow up feeling the same way for each other. It is simply the way our family is."

Jaehaerys looked unconvinced. He set aside his revulsion to lead her down the hall of portraits, his questions about relatives broadening into a wider curiosity of Westeros and the ways of the world.

Before his accident, Jaehaerys had been a delightful and rambunctious little boy, but not precocious as Rhaegar had been at his age. Perhaps the fall had awoken some untapped potential in his mind. Rhaella could not remember the last time a conversation had challenged her so.

Her promising little grandson provided a welcome distraction from the worrying ravens that had come from the Iron Islands. After all, not everyone had celebrated the return of dragons.

Rhaella only hoped the rebellion had been long subdued by the time Rhaegar and his dragon stepped foot upon Pyke, and that Balon Greyjoy would not prove as treacherous as his heir.

* * *

 _What is dead may never die._

Balon Greyjoy looked down upon the pale, bloated body the royal fleet had fished out of the sea, and knew he looked upon his oldest.

"This is Rodrik," he rumbled. His brave, brazen boy. His brainless boy. "This is the face of a traitor."

Rodrik's water-logged face vanished back beneath a simple black cloth, one unadorned by a golden kraken. Balon had disowned him weeks before.

Two years, Balon had ruled on Pyke. Two years spent rebuilding the fleet his father had dismantled and waiting for the tide to turn in his favor. Two years, squandered in the single evening news had reached Pyke of the dragons' rebirth. If Balon had known Rodrik would've set sail that very night to rally a rebellion, he would've ordered his longship sunk.

True ironborn paid close attention to the whims of the sea. One ill wind or rogue wave could send the strongest sailor to the Drowned God's hall. Balon had dreaded living in the shadow of dragons, as his ancestors had once been forced to, but the Iron Throne was the strongest it had been in decades. To challenge the crown was to challenge the green lands in their entirety.

Balon had commanded his men to wait until the winds were in their favor. The wise had heeded him. The young and foolish, Rodrik and Aeron amongst them, had not.

To avoid the dragon's wrath burning everything to ashes, Balon had been forced to leave the foolish to their fates. Aeron's body had not yet been recovered.

King Rhaegar rested a hand upon his dragon's head. The beast was no bigger than a dog. One day it would envelop all of Pyke in its shadow. "Traitor or not, he was still your blood, Lord Balon. You will be allowed to bury him as you see fit."

"Rodrik is dead, Your Grace. All I can do is throw him back to the sea and allow the Drowned God to judge him as he will."

All worthy ironborn feasted in the Drowned God's halls, no matter how noble their blood. Rodrik had dared defy a dragon. He deserved a seat close to the Grey King himself.

Balon had to admit the King had an eye for spectacle. He wore night-black armor and had a gilded broadsword strapped to his side. Rubies in the shape of a three-headed dragon glittered like drops of blood on his chest plate. His crown was a simple gold band. A foolish man might have assumed Rhaegar had smashed Rodrik's ill-fated rebellion, though the majority of the strange ships in Pyke's waters carried the Lannister lion.

Balon forced himself to kneel and publicly affirm his loyalty to Rhaegar and the realm. He had not officially acknowledged Rhaegar as overlord until Rodrik's rebellion had forced his hand.

"Rise, Lord Balon," the King declared. "You are no conquered king seeking mercy, but Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, and you have proven yourself a loyal subject of the realm."

Balon stood.

Though he carried no silver harp and his tone was somber, the King sung a pretty song of wilful sons and fathers torn between family and fealty. He urged his audience to remember that, though they be Andal or ironborn, followers of the Faith or the Drowned God, they were all citizens of the Seven Kingdoms. This tragedy should not further their feuds, but help mend them, for they were brothers of blood and bond.

 _My nephews had Andal blood, dragon-fucker, and they died all the same.  
_

The Drowned God worked in mysterious ways. Rodrik Harlaw may have lost his sons, but the boys' mother had been a Piper. At least future generations of the house would be spared such weak blood. Balon had acted in time to spare Maron his brother's fate. He had lost his best son, but not the only child capable of replacing him.

Balon sought out Tywin Lannister in the crowd. His stoic facade befitted an ironborn, but the lion was licking his lips on the inside. After all, the King had just declared Maron would be wed to a Lannister to strengthen ties between the mainland and its isles. The girl was not even a close relative of Tywin's, but a cousin of a more distant branch.

Pyke had weathered countless storms. It could weather another. The little lioness was but one-and-ten. Balon had years to confirm no weak-willed pawn ever sat upon the Seastone Chair.

 _What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger._

* * *

Upon Balon Greyjoy bending the knee and reaffirming his house's loyalty to the Iron Throne, Rhaegar had sailed to King's Landing with Solthys and oversee an easy transition back to peacetime. Their triumphant return to Dragonstone was met with an exuberant crowd and the smallfolk hailing Rhaegar as both the Dragon King and Father of Dragons. The revelry had been short-lived, for Rhaegar had soon busied himself in his duties, and Rhaella had quickly returned to hers.

When Viserys had been born, Rhaella had been forbidden to even touch her own son. Aerys had still desired queen's milk for his son and had ordered Rhaella's own maids to milk her like a cow. Her son had first nursed from a milk-soaked cloth.

Aerys had unwittingly granted her the greatest gift; a child that was hers and hers alone. Though nursemaids were available and always eager to assist, Rhaella had nursed Daenerys simply because no one could stop her from doing so. When Daenerys fussed at night, Rhaella insisted on being woken to attend to the problem herself.

Rhaegar had requested her presence in the castle's lower levels. Rhaella went down with her daughter in hand. Visenya screamed and howled whenever she hungered or soiled herself. Her constant crying often provoked Daenerys into the same. The noise had driven Jon out of the nursery and into a room of his own. Secure in her mother's arms and away from Visenya's screams, Daenerys finally quieted and stuck Drogon's wing in her mouth.

"Perhaps you should move the little princess into your chambers if this keeps happening, Your Grace?" Ser Lewyn suggested. "My sister always insisted on having her babes close by while they were in the cradle."

"Daenerys is quite popular with the rest of the princes and princesses. Much as I love my son and grandchildren, I can't have my privacy invaded at hours of the day whenever someone insists on visiting her."

While the lower levels of the Red Keep could get quite cold, Dragonstone's dungeons were warmed by heat from the Dragonmont, and the chamber Ser Lewyn led her to was but a level above. Rhaella passed dark and vaulted chambers were the last dragons had been kept. Aegon III had hoped the warmth and security provided there would allow them to thrive. Captivity had only sickened them and stifled their growth.

Rhaegar had ordered one such chamber opened into a den for Solthys so she could come and go as she pleased while she was still small and vulnerable. She would roost in the Dragonmont when large enough. The chamber Ser Oswell guarded was nearby, but far smaller. Its contents were arguably just as precious.

Rhaella gazed upon shelves of dragon eggs and gasped. "My father swore he destroyed them all."

"Perhaps he believed he did," Rhaegar said. "Perhaps not even he could bear destroying our house's future. I do not know how long these eggs were buried in the Red Keep, but there is again hope for them to hatch. Melisandre and I inspect them daily."

Faint hope fluttered in Rhaella's breast. "Did you find any from Summerhall yet or are you still excavating the ruins?"

"Not even fragments and Melisandre's flames show nothing of their whereabouts. The fire could have destroyed them all or they could still be buried too deep for Melisandre to find." Rhaegar spread out his arms. "Should your original egg never be found, I pray one of these can be a suitable substitute."

Rhaella's dreams of flying away from her marriage to Aerys had died in the fires of Summerhall. She had thought dragons just as dead, until her son's faith and the red woman's magic had proven her wrong.

The braziers burned brightly with one of the red woman's enchantments. In the light the eggs' colors were easily discernible. Rhaella scanned the shelves.

"Mother always said my egg was a child of Dreamfyre's, pale blue and-"

"-Silver." Rhaegar knelt down to pick up such an egg from the lowest shelf. The silver veins of her first egg had resembled spider webs, and this one more resembled wispy clouds, but the colors were near identical. "Records on dragon lines are spotty at best, but if this egg is not Dreamfyre's child, then it is certainly a sibling. Aemon is sure of that."

Daenerys was no longer so small and the Kingsguards had remained at the entrance. Rhaella settled for briefly brushing the egg to marvel at its smooth surface. "Aemon's is the most senior member of our house. His lore helped you hatch Solthys in the first place. I trust he has already received his egg?"

"Aemon forfeited his egg upon joining the Night's Watch. We both agree he is too old for an egg and the Watch too dangerous for such a priceless object." Rhaegar frowned thoughtfully. "Yet another thing that needs rebuilding."

In the wake of Rodrik's Rebellion Rhaegar had announced grand plans to rebuild both Summerhall and the Dragonpit. Little remained of the Whispers, but Rhaegar had deemed it the perfect site to construct a modest keep for Jaehaerys to one day rule over. House Crabb technically ruled over the area, but they themselves had fallen into ruin nigh over a century ago.

Aerys had jealously hoarded away his gold and the coffers were brimming with funds. Rhaella understood her son's concern for rebuilding the strength of their house, but not his need to also meddle with the Night's Watch. Aemon may have served as their maester, but their giant wall deterred only wildlings.

"Drogon!"

Daenerys had dropped her felt dragon. She twisted fiercely in her mother's arms, straining to reach a black egg with blood-red lines.

"That isn't a toy, sweetling."

Rhaegar tried to hand back her felt dragon. Daenerys threw it to the ground and started shrieking.

"I can have a wooden egg carved for her to play with, once I know what hers looks like," Rhaella said smoothly. "Do you have one in mind?"

Rhaegar's eyes flicked down to 'Drogon's' egg. Only then did Rhaella notice there were only two black eggs in the entire brood. The other was pure black.

"I considered giving Aegon this egg, as black and red are the colors of our house, but Balerion is said to have been dark as night." He hesitated. "I do not see a reason Daenerys should be denied 'Drogon.' She is a Targaryen and her children will share our blood. Her children may not be riders. The egg may never hatch at all."

Rhaella had never fully understood her son's mind for his thinking carried him to lofty heights. She did not know why he had spoken such things allowed, but Daenerys was granted her Drogon.

Her ignorance of her son did not deter her from at least trying to discern his motivations. There was obvious symbolism in granting Aegon, the future king, an egg that could become Balerion reborn. Rhaenys adored Solthys and her egg had similar coloration. Viserys had simply liked the cream and gold. Despite the advice of the maesters, Lyanna insisted on dragging herself out of bed to see the eggs herself. She agreed Jon should be granted the white egg, for white both represented the snows of the North and one of the colors of House Stark. Visenya's egg was green for summer and bronze for the traditional metal of the First Men.

Rhaegar offered no explanation when he presented Jaehaerys a white egg speckled with black.

Lyanna may have not realized how small Jon's egg had been in comparison to the others, but Rhaella had not. Jaehaerys' was perhaps even a tad smaller.

Jaehaerys squinted at the egg when it was presented to him. Rhaella held her breath.

Then, his face broke out into the brightest smile he'd had since his accident. "She's perfect."


	6. The Dragon King Ascendant

**A bonus chapter to smooth the transition over from one phase of Harry's life to another. Questions and comments can be directed to this story's forum. Find the link in my profile.  
**

From a young age the Dursleys had expected Harry to 'earn his keep,' to play his part in cooking meals and keeping the garden pristine. They couldn't have cared less about his grades, only that every hour in school was one less hour they had to spend with him.

As a prince Harry had servants to not only clean his chambers and serve him food, but to dress him every day. Viserys, who was years older than what Harry now appeared to be, still had servants to change his clothes. Harry had quickly insisted on dressing himself. Three years old was plenty old enough to dress himself, even if his chubby child fingers had trouble with some of the smaller buttons on his doublets.

Young Harry Potter had learned to live without friends once Dudley and his little gang scared away all of the children interested in playing with him. Harry Targaryen had no shortage of playmates. Viserys was a bit of a ponce, but he was years older than the other royal children. Jon and Dany toddled after him wherever he went. Aegon turned his nose up at playing with his little siblings and said he had no time for babies. Rhaenys was nicer, but closest to Aegon.

Jaehaerys' memories insisted Aegon had been closest with him up until his accident. Now Aegon didn't even want to be in the alone in the same room with him. They had once shared a room, but Aegon had kept sneaking out to sleep with Rhaenys or into the corner of the castle Melisandre had claimed for herself and her god. Rhaella and Lya both assured him Aegon would warm to him eventually.

The day had never seemed to come. Harry learned to live with it. Aegon's avoidance wasn't as hurtful as Dudley's belligerent bullying. Jon and Dany were eager little siblings even if one was technically his aunt.

When Visenya grew big enough to move about on her own, her family all tried to play with her too. Viserys quickly gave up. He was growing older and had responsibilities of his own, especially after his dragon Neltharion hatched. Aegon and Rhaenys made a token effort before returning their attention to each other. Jon tolerated his little sister only because his mother and grandmother insisted upon it. Harry grew accustomed to tearing Dany and Visenya apart whenever they found some new reason to quarrel.

Visenya's best and only friend was her egg. She spent hours curled up with it in her lap and whispering to the dragon inside. Her clothes were perpetually singed and her face covered in soot as she leaned in too close to the fire.

Aside from his long lessons with Maester Corwyn and the spars in the courtyard, Harry's only chore was the daily warming of his egg. Uncle Aemon had wrote repeated warming of a dragon's egg increased the odds of a healthy hatchling.

As a younger child a servant had tended the fire and turned his egg with iron tongs so all sides were equally warmed. Now even Visenya was old enough to do it by herself.

Caelix, Rhaella's dragon, had hatched a year after Solthys and Neltharion for Viserys two years after that.

Viserys had departed to Sunspear to wed Arianne Martell when Neltharion had turned two, both large enough to ride and strong enough to live without the heat of the Dragonmont. Rhaella flew daily upon Caelix and offered to take one passenger with her per ride. The brief flights did not stop her daughter or grandchildren from wishing for their own eggs to hatch.

Aegon joyfully wept the day his pitch-black dragon hatched. Rhaenys' dragon, so much like Solthys in coloring, came hours later. Rhaegar named them Sabazios and Zalmoxis, derived from names of two old Valyrian gods. Visenya's dragon hatched two days later. She accepted no name for him but Lycaon, a king from a battered old Valyrian text Uncle Aemon had been trying to restore.

In the days following Jon and Dany hovered over their eggs for any signs of hatching. Dragonstone had no true godswood, but Jon prayed daily before the tallest pine tree in Aegon's Garden. Dany favored the sept. The statues of the Seven were said to have been carved from the masts of the ships their ancestors had sailed to Dragonstone upon. Harry thought this contradicted his history lessons that stated Aegon and his house had converted to the Faith _after_ their conquest.

He didn't think their hopes were unfounded. Though he had now seen ten namedays, his own egg was heavier to hold than it had been years ago, as if the embryo inside was developing. Before being bathed in the brazier the shell had once been cold as stone to the touch. Even hours later it now radiated heat.

Seven days after Lycaon hatched, Harry had scarcely put his egg in the fire before he heard it trill.

Down the call came the shrieks of three hatchlings. From outside came the faint answering roars of Solthys and Caelix. Harry's egg warbled back.

He knelt before the brazier. Even when he squinted against the heat he could still see the egg shaking slightly.

Distantly he heard his door burst open and Jon scream that his egg was hatching. There was shouting and pounding footsteps. Then the crackling flames and the sounds of his egg drowned all else out.

After an eternity a crack fractured the speckled shell. Not long after a white head emerged and the hatchling tumbled out. The fire hissed from the fluids of her egg and shot up sparks.

A firm hand grabbed the back of his doublet and pulled him away from the brazier.

"Let the flames die down, Jaehaerys," his father said. "Your dragon isn't going anywhere."

Harry wrenched himself free. Rhaegar could not grab him in time before he reached down and plucked the hatchling from the fire.

His dragon squealed at the sudden loss of heat and blindly burrowed her head into his tunic. Her white scales were flecked with black but the undersides of her wings were pure as snow. Gently he wiped the wetness from her eyelids. Bright gold eyes blinked before they focused on him with unblinking intensity.

Tears prickled in his eyes.

"Don't be so happy, big brother. It's a runt."

Harry looked up. Whilst his family had packed themselves into his room, Visenya stood at the threshold. Even in soiled clothes she carried herself with a pureblood's arrogant grace. Lycaon had already doubled in size and now lay curled in her arms. Her lips were curled and her eyes sharper than her dragon's.

"Of course I'm happy, Visenya," he said evenly. "She's perfect."

"Perfectly small and sickly," she sniffed. "She'll die in the night."

Rhaella said her name sharply, but Visenya had already stalked out of the doorway. Lyanna huffed, red-faced, and swept off after her.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly before he turned away from the door and back to Harry. "Your dragon is lovely, Jaehaerys, but she is smaller than any dragon hatched within living memory. We will do our best to keep her cared for, but you must understand there are those no maester can save. If she passes, you are welcome to a second chance with another egg."

Harry inspected his hatchling once more. Pressed up against his body heat she did not shiver. Her gaze was alert and unclouded.

"Thank you for your offer, Father, but I don't think I'll need it."

"She needs to do a lot of growing to catch up to Sabazios," Aegon said. He looked pleased. Sabazios was hours older than Zalmoxis but already noticeably larger. "Does she have a name yet?"

Perhaps one soul from his old life had followed him into this new life. Perhaps her resemblance to one of his first true friends was but cruel coincidence. Harry needed one look at her to know it did not matter.

"Her name is Hedwig."

Jon laughed and said Hedwig was no proper name for a dragon. Then he winced when Dany kicked him in the shin.

* * *

Brynden Rivers was said to have had a thousand eyes and one, but Melisandre's flames offered her knowledge even Bloodraven would have killed for. Rhaegar had long lost count of the plots she had thwarted himself, his family, and his dragons. None that posed a direct threat to the promised prince escaped her notice. Before her Rhaegar thought he could have never found a trustworthy and effective master of whispers.

Varys had pretended to be Aerys' ally even as he'd stoked his paranoia and turned him even further against his own court. He had helped with the wildfire plot that had nearly destroyed King's Landing and Rhaegar himself. In the chaos of Aerys' death Varys had slipped out of the city and hadn't been seen since.

Rhaegar would have been happiest with Varys dead but even Melisandre's powers only reached so far for as the eunuch never posed himself a direct threat. She at least foiled whatever pawns he sent their way. Rhaegar did not know what new master Varys served, but he must have been behind at least some of those hidden daggers and poisoned chalices.

No life had been sacrificed on Jaehaerys' behalf and his egg hatched all the same. Melisandre had not known until word had reached her across the castle. She had declared it to be the work of the Great Other. Was not the hatchling both white as the winter snows and flecked black as the night?

For a time, Rhaegar had feared her right. Then Ghost and Drogon hatched within two weeks of Hedwig.

"This was no act of evil, but divine providence," he told Melisandre in the privacy of his chambers. "Wild dragons once hatched without human intervention. We now live in an age where magic is strong enough for them to hatch on their own once more."

"Within every uncertainty lurks certain danger, Your Grace. We did not plan for these dragons to hatch so soon. One day they may outstrip Sabazios. Jon's beast hatched smaller than Jaehaerys' and already it is larger. It makes no sound, not even when hungry. Its eyes are red as the sap of those heathen trees and its hide-"

"Do you mean to tell me _two_ of my sons are agents of your Great Other, Lady Melisandre?" Rhaegar said coldly. "Would you say the same of my sister?"

Melisandre did not flinch. "She is to marry another than Azor Ahai and then she shall be outside of your control. Look how she already loves your younger sons like Rhaenys does Aegon. What shall become of your sister when the first spark of lust kindles in her heart? If Azor Ahai stands for all that is good and godly, then his counterpart shall be all that is twisted and perverse. If Azor Ahai shall have two sister-wives, then why-"

"Enough!" Rhaegar roared.

Melisandre fell silent. Her eyes burned even hotter than the air around them. Rhaegar stared stonily back. He was a dragon, and dragons do not fear fire. If need be he would plunge a sword through her heart like Nissa-Nissa and order his Kingsguard to throw her corpse to the fish of the narrow sea.

He was on the verge of shouting for Ser Arthur when she cast her eyes downward. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I go to far."

Her deep curtsy brought no pleasure to him. "Swear upon your god that you will not utter such treasonous words before me again, Melisandre, nor before any of my family." With a shiver he thought of Aegon. His eldest was enchanted by the priestess' tales and her magic tricks.

"I swear as a faithful priestess of R'hllor, Your Grace. I care deeply for Prince Aegon's well-being and wish only to see him succeed in his destiny."

Rhaegar studied her. He did not doubt her sincerity. Melisandre devoted herself to Aegon as she did no other, save her god. Perhaps it was only a woman's sentimentality that made her fret so fiercely over Aegon. Lyanna was especially prone to bouts of such hysteria when it came to Jon. He hoped Melisandre would be firmer with Aegon in the future. Visenya was perfect in her vivacious, a true dragon's daughter born of a wild she-wolf. His son and heir needed his raw enthusiasm tempered by more than tender doting.

"Perhaps it is time for you to return to King's Landing," he said after a long and thoughtful silence. "The small council always has need of your knowledge."

"They have even more need of their king, Your Grace."

His mother had reminded him of such that very morning. Although Solthys was a swift flier and the Dragonpit had been rebuilt they preferred spending their time on Dragonstone and away from the stench and stifling heat of King's Landing. During his father lifetime Dragonstone had been Rhaegar's personal seat, his refuge away from Aerys' madness and a demanding realm.

But Aerys had been dead for near a decade. Dragonstone was now Aegon's seat. It far too small to hold the full grandness of the modern royal court. His older lords often complained of their aching bones in Dragonstone's damp air whenever they visited. Hoster Tully, as Hand of the King, had sat in the Iron Throne longer than Rhaegar himself.

"Take the first available ship and inform the rest of my court I shall be following within the week," Rhaegar said shortly. "I have business to attend to yet."

Once the door had shut behind Melisandre Rhaegar sank into a chair.

When Aemon's reconstructed dragonlore had recommended daily bathing an egg in flames to increase the chance of a healthy hatchling, he had never truly thought it would work. It had simply lifted suspicion over how healthy dragons continually hatched. His mother had been suspicious enough when he had refused to tell her the full ritual that had resulted in Solthys. Rhaegar could never let his mother know the lengths he had gone to for the sake of their house and that of the very world.

Melisandre had spent months devising a ritual that did not require the egg to be burned directly with the sacrifice. As long as the pyre and brazier were set alight at the same time then the egg was revitalized with the sacrifice. Caelix hatched three hours after an old woman burned. Sabazios had hatched as the elderly couple's pyre was fully set alight and Zalmoxis as the flames died down hours later. Lycaon entered the world with a mighty shriek. Only later did Rhaegar learn from Ser Arthur that the old man had been an addict unaffected by poppy seed. He had died screaming.

Three dragon eggs might have hatched years sooner than Rhaegar would have liked, but they had done so naturally. No innocent elder had died for Hedwig's life or for Ghost's or Drogon's. All three hatchlings thrived.

Melisandre could not yet foretell precisely when the Long Night loomed. Perhaps the hatching of these dragons was a blessing in disguise. If the cold crept in swifter than anticipated, then there were three more dragons to join the fight.

Rhaegar turned to his desk. Summerhall and the Dragonpit had been swiftly rebuilt. King's Landing refurbished streets and a purging of the City Watch allowed its growing population to comfortably expand. A modest keep for Jaehaerys on Crackclaw Point was coming along nicely. Rhaegar shoved his plans for yet more rebuilding and restructuring of the Night's Watch aside; those could wait another day.

His secure chamber for the kingdom's last remaining dragon eggs was built right into the warmth of the Dragonmont. He supposed the chamber could be moved to a colder location. His house had enough surprise dragons for the time being.

 **I figured Rhaegar could use some additional scenes to help round out his personality. There's also hints that, yes, the modern golden age for the Targaryen family is also extending to those beneath them.**

 **I will also state once and for all this is not a story about Harry dragging Westeros into an industrial revolution. Nothing against those stories were Westeros rapidly evolves, but that just isn't what I want to write. Especially since canon seventeen-year-old Harry Potter never came off as technologically-minded at all to me.**


	7. The She-Wolf

**I am rehauling this chapter for the third and final time. It was previously called _The Eastern Alliance._ Old checkers, make sure you read the chapter before this _(The Dragon King Ascendant)_ as it bridges the time skip somewhat. Questions and comments can be directed this story's forum. Find the link on my profile.**

Eleven years of marriage had not taught Lyanna to love Dragonstone. The island was damp and dreary in a way not even Northern winters could be. The castle stank of brine and, depending on the wind, faintly of dead fish or brimstone. It was too small and treacherous a land to ride Winter anywhere. Flying with Jon or Harry was the only real fun to be had. She still had no patience for reading or women's work. She was no painter or musician. The smallfolk had no patience for her. She still had nightmares of the stone dragons and gargoyles eating her alive.

King's Landing was little better since her father had retired and returned home to Winterfell. The smallfolk had perhaps even less patience for her. The streets smelled of shit. The Red Keep grew stifling in the summer but at least she had more room to avoid Melisandre and her ilk. She could browse the markets or ride through the kingswood with Winter.

Summerhall was open and airy, a summer residence in a rural land with few villages surrounding it. There was no smallfolk around to judge her or call her barbarian. The air smelled only of nature or freshly-cut hay. She and Winter were still exploring the forest trails around Summerhall. If she was even fortunate some of her family would deign to join her.

"Needlework is a servant's past-time," Visenya said for the fourth time that hour. "I want to go riding."

Lyanna did not look up from her very simple stitching of a dragon's head. She tried not to grit her teeth "Your father has not yet deemed Lycaon large enough to ride, dearest."

The term of endearment sounded as false as it felt. Jaehaerys was Harry and Daenerys Dany. Visenya was neither Senya nor darling nor dearest. She was simply Visenya. Lyanna hated being on such formal terms with her own daughter. Even Aegon occasionally allowed Rhaenys to call him Egg.

Visenya sniffed down at the needlework she had not even touched. "This is servant's work. Father is the most powerful man in the kingdom. I am no servant."

"Sewing is one of the few practical skills deemed respectable for women of our rank," Lyanna said stiffly. "You could at least try it with me. It's one of the things I enjoyed doing with my mother."

Visenya curled her lip. Her eyes stared like knives. "Why would I ever care about what _you_ enjoy? You aren't me."

Lyanna bit her tongue to keep from screaming. It did not stop her face from flushing bright red. Visenya's face smoothed into an expression of perfect neutrality as she turned to stare out the window.

Not for the first time she wished her good-mother were there. Visenya was a girl of but nine and could leave her Lyanna, a mother and queen, feeling the impertinent child. Rhaella tolerated no such disrespect. She was one of the few adults Visenya even heeded anymore. Lyanna wished for but a fraction of her good-mother's grace and restraint.

"You do not like learning or the arts, for you throw both books and instruments into the fire. When I agreed with your father to let you learn swordplay, you grew bored and nearly killed a boy when you threw your sword away. Is there anything I can get you to enjoy?" _I was born a wolf, and at times you seem more bitch than I do,_ Lyanna did not add.

Visenya did not turn away from the window. "I want to go riding."

Lyanna too longed for the outdoors. Her chambers offered a broad view of the pastures and the rolling hills beyond. Winter's coat, nearly white in his old age, was easy to distinguish from the herd grazing below. He had been her mother's gelding once. She had taught Dany and all of Rhaegar's children, save Visenya, how to ride upon him. Visenya had sneered and demanded only a dragon for a mount.

Winter was too old to gallop now, but he could still work up a canter. Lyanna loved nothing more than to lean into him and pretend they were both one. Racing the wind on Winter felt freer than flying.

"Your father has business today and Aegon isn't permitted passengers." When Visenya's countenance didn't change, Lyanna hopefully offered, "If you let me teach you to ride a horse, you don't need to learn how to stitch. You can get outside and out of this stuffy room. It can even be considered practice for learning how to ride Lycaon."

A shadow passed overhead. Lyanna squinted and made out green scales. No wonder her daughter was so distracted.

"Is he going hunting?" she wondered. Her daughter loved talking of her dragon.

Visenya did not answer. Her eyes were distant and dreamy. Lyanna had never seen her daughter so lost in thought.

Lycaon did not continue on to the woods. He swooped back toward Summerhall. Several horses whinnied and galloped to the other side of the pasture. Most were accustomed to dragons. The dragons often flew to castles for food or in search of their masters.

Lycaon circled lower. His shadow loomed over the pasture. The horses, sensing his hunting intent, erupted into a frenzy. They scattered in all directions. Several rammed into the fence. Others trampled men that moved to reign them in. A brown charger tried to jump to freedom and brought the fence down with it. Lyanna's heart pounded as if she herself were hunted.

"Visenya!" she cried. "What is he doing?"

Lycaon dove. An almost white horse screamed as it was enveloped in a blaze of orange-yellow flames. Lyanna screamed with him.

Visenya smiled.

* * *

Twelve years of marriage had not taught Lyanna to love Rhaegar again. It had first wavered when he had looked despairingly upon their newborn son and assured her it wasn't her fault. Rhaegar had eventually warmed up to Jon and Lyanna to her husband. She had thought it dead when Rhaegar had consoled her but once on Valarr's death and then never spoke of him again. Twice their sons had become an afterthought to him.

Rhaegar had bought her the finest mare in Willas Tyrell's stables. Then he agreed with Visenya that Lycaon was indeed big enough to ride since he had killed a horse on all on his own. He seemed almost proud at the thought. Lyanna knew then that their love had died.

Visenya spent most months at Summerhall with Lycaon. Lyanna tried not to spend time on Dragonstone when her daughter was present. Rhaegar allotted certain funds to those farmers and fishermen who had their livelihoods disturbed by dragons. She knew Rhaegar paid the most on Visenya's behalf though Lycaon did not favor livestock.

When the raven had come bearing news of Rickard Stark's death, Rhaegar had insisted on her riding with him. Ghost was not large enough for a second passenger, after all, and the royal family had to present a united front to their realm.

Lyanna learned soon enough to put on a false face. Her good-mother had covered her scars and feigned an affable marriage even as Aerys had declared her dead children bastards and left her chambers with bloody hands. Lyanna could tolerate an apathetic husband that treated their son decently and doted upon their daughter. Rhaegar had not shared her bed since shortly after the conception of their twins. He turned a blind eye to her lovers as long as they were discrete. Her sources reported Rhaegar kept mistresses for no more than several months and left no bastards in his wake.

Dragonstone remained just as dull and dreary. Rhaegar still insisted holding court there at least once a month until Aegon came of age. Lyanna understood very little of Dragonstone's concerns, but the king's rulings always sounded fair. Just sitting occasionally at Rhaegar's side reminded the realm they had a queen who cared for their interests... even if she was more knowledgeable of forest rights than fishing disputes.

The last man of the day, a merchant who hotly disputed the taxes upon his Lyseni silk before it had even entered King's Landing, took far too long for Rhaegar to dismiss. Lyanna had barely risen from her seat when the doors slammed open.

Harry was generally a good-natured boy. Today his black hair was disheveled and his face twisted into a snarl.

The Conqueror had constructed the Chamber of the Painted Table so that he might look down upon the Seven Kingdoms and plot his campaign. Now Harry stormed down the length of Westeros so that he might glare upon the king in his raised seat.

"Father," he growled, brandishing a crumpled paper in his fist. "What is the meaning of this?"

"A copy of the finalized terms for your betrothal to the eldest daughter of Arsenio Lascaris," Rhaegar said calmly. "Much of it has already been discussed with you."

"Not the clause that _sells off my first-born_ daughter!"

"It was but a show of good faith, Jaehaerys." Rhaegar waved a dismissive hand. "The Tyroshi are a discerning people. When they agree to a marriage pact, they wish for such ties to endure for decades. You talk as if such a daughter would be sold into slavery rather than to the heir of one of Tyrosh's most powerful families. The issue shall not be raised again for many years, if ever at all."

"It shouldn't have been discussed at all!" Harry roared. "Marry me off to whoever you damn well please, but leave any child of mine out of this!"

Violet eyes narrowed beneath the slender gold crown of Aegon III. Rhaegar had not looked so displeased since the letter had arrived from Sunspear declaring that Viserys and Arianne had named their newborn daughter Elia. "You are a member of my household and will remain dependent upon me until I grant you an income of your own, if I ever deign to do so. You are both my subject and a boy of two and ten. I am your father, your head of house, and your king. You will not challenge me again."

Harry's green eyes blazed. "A father who sells off his unborn grandchildren is no father of mine."

Rhaegar stalked down from his seat. His son glared defiantly back. When Rhaegar rose a hand, the windows seemed to shake with the force of their fury. Lyanna lept up, the shriek catching in her throat.

"Your Grace!"

Rhaella loomed between father and son like the Mother herself. Gone was the ghost of Aerys' fragile wife. Rhaegar blinked, staggering back in horror at almost striking his own mother down. He shakily gave Harry his leave.

Harry was already leaving. He did not look back.

Lyanna picked up her skirts and hurried after him before the Queen Mother descended upon her son with a mother's fury.

She caught up to him as he ripped the last of the contract to pieces and scattered it to the winds.

"I tore my room apart when my father announced my betrothal to Robert Baratheon," she ventured softly. "He never asked me even what I thought of him."

Harry's head didn't turn from the window. His shoulders shook. She could not see his face.

"Please, Lya," he croaked. "Not now."

"All right," she said. After a moment she crept up and wrapped her arms around him. He flinched but did not pull away. "I'll be in my chambers."

It was not Harry who found her an hour later, but Jon. She could scarcely understand his hysterical babbling.

He and Dany had been about to race their dragons around the island when Hedwig, docile little Hedwig, had shrieked and attacked Solthys head on. The larger dragon had swatted her aside. Solthys had advanced on Hedwig until Caelix had bodily placed herself between them.

Lyanna followed Jon up the narrow paths of the Dragonmont. Drogon and Ghost guarded a smaller cave's entrance like massive gargoyles. The black dragon rumbled ominously. Ghost only snuffled Jon's hair. Drogon's red eyes bore holes into their back, but made no move from his post.

Hedwig had retreated deep into the cavern where no larger dragons could enter. Harry was already by her side, murmuring softly as he applied a thick salve to the ugly gash upon her neck. Her left wing was mottled dark purple from where she had fallen. She bared black fangs whenever Harry daubed her wound.

"The bite Caelix gave Solthys is even worse," Jon whispered.

Lyanna suppressed a smirk. If gentle Hedwig's wounds were to scar then the Silver Queen's shimmering scales should be just as untarnished.

* * *

It took Lyanna thirteen years of marriage to see Harry seated at his father's right hand. Such an honor was usually reserved for Aegon as the heir or Lyanna as the queen, but they were not the ones meeting their betrothed for the first time.

Even from the Great Hall Lyanna heard the clamor of strange instruments and songs in bastardized Valyrian. It sounded as if Arsenio Lascaris, the lying old bastard, had brought twice the amount of performers he'd promised. Kevan Lannister must have fled to his chambers with a barrel of wine after glimpsing the staggering costs ahead of him. Rhaegar would be determined to make Aegon and Harry's nameday celebrations even grander in comparison, and then Aegon and Rhaenys' wedding grandest of all.

Rhaegar spent more time at Dragonstone and Summerhall than King's Landing, but he had still breathed new life into the Red Keep. Most of the nineteen dragon skulls that had loomed over the Great Hall in Aerys' time had been removed elsewhere. Balerion's colossal obsidian skull was centered directly above the Iron Throne. It was flanked to the left and right by skulls almost as large.

Officially, these were Vhagar and Meraxes, the dragons of the Conqueror's sister-wives. Meraxes, however, had died far smaller than Vhagar and Balerion. Her true skull had been substituted for Meleys'.

Solthys the Silver Queen, curled behind the Iron Throne, opened her mouth in a yawn. Her obsidian fangs were the only hint of the black dragonbone concealed beneath her shimmering hide of silver and gold. At ten years old she was dwarfed by the remnants of her ancestors. The bones of Balerion were a sobering promise the current Targaryen dragons could one day grow just as powerful.

It was Hedwig's first time inside since she had been a young hatchling. At three years old, the dragon was scarcely large enough to carry two passengers. She stubbornly refused to remove her head from his lap.

Lyanna flashed him a smile. Harry returned it with a small grimace. Her poor stepson was usually so good at maintaining an air of composure Lyanna struggled for sometimes.

His doublet was rich black-and-red velvet, of a far stiffer style than he would ever wear of his own free will. Harry did not wear his house colors so blatantly unless Rhaegar or Rhaella ordered him into them. The gold coronet was always donned at sword-point.

 _I was four-and-ten when Father told me I'd be marrying the Prince far sooner than I ever expected to marry Robert. Harry will be no older._

Though Harry was to meet his betrothed today their wedding was not until the beginning of the new year. Aegon was to be married to Rhaenys directly on his fourteenth nameday.

Having dreaded her impending marriage to Robert, it had once seemed a miracle Lyanna had instead married the handsome prince with the silver harp and silver voice. After he had protected her secret at Harrenhal, and honored her as his Queen of love and beauty regardless, Lyanna had knelt before the heart-tree of Winterfell and thanked the old gods for intervening on her behalf.

Now she was simply grateful Harry was not as stupid and naive as she'd been at his age.

Arsenio Lascaris did not care he was presenting his favorite daughter to a boy of but three-and-ten, even if Harry's clothes now reeked of sulfur and smoked ham. When Hedwig had hatched for Harry, Arsenio had not only offered Rhaegar his choice of his daughters and a dowry fit for a king instead of a second son, but a prize all of Casterly Rock's gold could not buy Tywin Lannister.

Seated beside Rhaella, Lyanna did not feel underdressed in a simple gown of gray and white. Her good-mother also favored unfrivolous styles, albeit ones with high collars to hide the scars no amount of time could erase. Daenerys was on Rhaella's other side, very much her mother's miniature in a similar dress of blue-green fringed with gold.

At first glance, Aegon and Rhaenys looked the perfect prince and princess. It didn't take Lyanna long to notice how they kept sharing quick glances and secret smiles, the same sort Bran had given many serving girls of Winterfell.

Rhaenys had been a doting older sister, one who had looked after Aegon like Lyanna once had sweet little Benjen. Her mind still retched at the thought their wedding night was fast approaching - or how anxiously they awaited it.

Lyanna had been prepared to castrate Rhaegar until he had vowed their daughter would never marry Jon. Rhaenys may have always loved Aegon more than anyone else, but it was still impossible for Visenya to have a civil conversation with her older brother. They did not deserve a miserable lifetime together.

Visenya's latest betrothed was some sickly little lordling rumored to be on his deathbed. Rhaegar's poor record for selecting potential husbands was an argument for another day.

Jon, who had been rolling his eyes at the flirting of his older siblings', grew even glummer when a seething Visenya took her seat beside him. It took an army of handmaids to force even a simple black gown and braid upon her. In her mind's eye Lyanna envisioned a third child beside them, a pale-haired and gray-eyed boy, to balance their conflicting personalities. Rhaella had assured her the pain of losing a child never truly away, that it was perfectly natural to sometimes wonder over what might have been. Lyanna had lost but one child. Rhaella had buried five.

Lyanna swore when she realized the maids had forgotten her daughter's coronet. Even Jon had his half-hidden in his messy hair.

The corner of Rhaella's mouth twitched into a disapproving frown. Then she caught the eye of one of her handmaidens. Poor Emma Edgerton's hands shook as she approached Visenya with a spare coronet. Visenya froze like a hound about to bite. Beneath her grandmother's eye, she remained frozen as Emma dropped the coronet on her head and bustled away with the quickest curtsy Lyanna had ever seen.

Birthing Valarr had nearly killed her. He had certainly killed whatever siblings might have been born after him. Sometimes his twisted visage haunted her nightmares. Other times it was the ghost of the boy that might have been. She wondered why she loved a little urn of ashes that had never lived to trouble her more than the daughter who was like her in so many ways. The daughter who had smiled at a horse's dying screams.

Emma had just returned to her position when the first contingent of Tyroshis entered. Their eyes widened at the sight of the Dragon King upon his Iron Throne before they slipped into graceful bows. Their bright blue robes were so voluminous and their garish green hair styled so elaborately Lyanna had trouble telling their genders.

The Tyroshi choir sang in the high and sweet voices of eunuchs. Lyanna had difficulty understanding even High Valyrian, but she easily recognized a number of familiar names of both dragon and Targaryen alike. She did not need to look at Rhaegar to know he was sitting even straighter in his pointy throne from the sweet praises these strangers sang of him and his lineage.

Their praise extended to all royals in the hall. Lyanna heard herself likened to a winter rose. The last and longest part was dedicated to Harry, mostly filled with honorifics earlier used for Rhaegar - Brother of Dragons, Son of the Dragon King, Son of the Silver King, and so on. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hedwig rumbled at the disturbance.

When the first present entered, the eunuch choir then sang of the meaning of each and every gift. Lyanna wondered if Arsenio had driven himself into ruin in his effort to impress the Westerosi court and its Dragon King.

The presentation droned on until the wooden icon was carried in. Though done in the ostentatious Tyroshi style, the figure carried the scales of the Father. For one heart-pounding moment, Lyanna thought the artist had modeled the Father after Aerys.

It took a bit of squinting to recognize Rhaegar's face beneath the Father's characteristic beard. Rhaegar had always remained clean-shaven to avoid any unfavorable comparison to his father.

Six more representations of the Seven followed. The Maiden had Rhaenys' olive skin and the Crone Rhaella's silver braid. The Mother had features that vaguely resembled Elia Martell's. The Smith looked rather like Hoster Tully, the Hand who had helped forge the terms for the marriage agreement. The Warrior had Harry's black hair and green eyes. The cloaked Stranger looked indistinguishable from all other depictions.

Beneath the drone of the chorus, the crowd broke into murmurs. Melisandre's red robes made her easy to pick out in the crowd. Her face, which had not aged a day since Lyanna had first seen her a decade prior, showed open contempt at the reminder far more people in King's Landing adhered to the Faith than those that had converted to the red god. Her flock, mostly converts from the Faith, tried to look more neutral.

Arsenio Lascaris knew his Westerosi politics well, for seven more icons followed. The first showed a world engulfed by winter and ruled by beings with ice-white skin. The latter panels depicted a man with purple eyes and silver-blonde hair trying and failing to temper a blade in water and then with the blood of a lion. The fifth panel showed him plunging his sword into a faceless woman, the sixth him wielding a burning blade. The seventh icon showed him cutting down one of the ice-white beings as summer bloomed behind him. Melisandre and her followers broke into pleased murmurs in seeing Aegon's face upon Azor Ahai.

Lyanna was surprised when a third and final set entered. The first five depicted naturalistic scenes that had no significance. The sixth showed a massive wolf hunting in a winter wood. Only with the final icon, one painted a bone-white tree and blood-red face, did she realize the Tyroshi had been trying to depict the old gods.

She wondered what her father might have thought of them.

Rickard Stark had tried so hard to reintroduce the old gods to those south of the Neck. A fair number of Northmen had migrated south and requested a place for their worship. The Red Keep's godswood was unreachable to smallfolk and the unsanctified kingswood across the Blackwater Rush. Flea Bottom's removal had cleared room for saplings. None of the weirwood cuttings from Winterfell had taken root and the heart tree was instead an oak. Those of the red god's temple, so close to the Dragonpit, grumbled at having the old gods so close to Rhaenys' Hill.

When Arsenio Lascaris himself entered, Rhaegar rose from the Iron Throne to meet him. Solthys raised her head in idle curiosity.

For a man draped in at least ten lairs of richly-dyed purple cloth, Arsenio carried himself gracefully. Beneath the beard of dark purple curls his face was handsome enough. His accent was thick but his Westerosi flawless as he conversed with Rhaegar. His gaze continually flickered from the three dragon skulls above the Iron Throne to Hedwig.

Southron politics bored Lyanna, but even she had known Arsenio had entered negotiations with the Iron Throne not to pawn off a daughter, but to claim Visenya's hand for his own grandson - or one of his sons, if the boy died early. After months of ravens flying back and forth across the narrow sea, he had offered Rhaegar a grand dowry and his choice of his daughters only under the condition Harry's firstborn daughter be betrothed to an eligible Lascaris upon birth. An egg, preferably from Hedwig or another living dragon, would be part of her dowry.

Even Lyanna had known Arsenio cared little how Targaryen blood entered his line, only that someone of his name one day rode dragons too.

Rhaegar cared not for the Tyroshi's blatant ambitions. His gaze never left the last and greatest of wedding gifts Arsenio presented to him.

Tyrosh was said to value greed above all else and few could compete with the Lascaris family in wealth or prestige. Arsenio boasted numerous Archons in his ancestry and a line that dated to the days of the Valyrian Freehold. If the Valyrian sword he presented to Rhaegar was not an old heirloom, as he fastidiously claimed, then there was certainly no one left alive that would dare claim otherwise.

The blade was far shorter than Ice, but with the telltale smokiness of Valyrian steel. The onyx pommel, carved in the shape of a snarling dragon head with ruby eyes, must have been far younger.

Rhaegar spun some pretty speech of how the blade represented the renewal of ties between east and west. Lyanna was unsurprised he dubbed it Darkfyre and that it would forever more remain a treasured possession of House Targaryen.

Only then did Arsenio nod. A eunuch holding a gilded box hurried to his side.

When it came to agreements, Tyroshis were a paranoid people. Those wishing to make a new trade contract were expected to openly declare their prior ties so interested partners did not commit to an unknown party. This tradition dictated even marriage. The subjects of a betrothal contract both wore gold bands on their fingers to denote they were no longer on the open marriage market. A third ring was given to a trusted soul expected to witness the marriage and see the contract come to fruition. After the ceremony all three bands would be reforged into a single ring for the bride to wear until her dying day to symbolize the lasting union between the three parties.

Lyanna had seen sketches of the design Rhaegar had proposed. Gold bands had not been elaborate enough for him. Each ring bore the head of a single dragon. When Irenna married and formally joined their house, the rings would be reforged into the three-headed dragon for her to wear.

She was glad Westeros had no such traditions. She could remain in the Red Keep for weeks on end and happily pretend her husband didn't exist. Rhaegar could do the same to her on Dragonstone.

"Finally," Jon muttered as the bride-to-be was escorted into the hall.

Irenna Lascaris was quite hard to make out beneath the voluminous golden robes and a crown laden with precious stones. She gracefully knelt before Rhaegar even as her head and shoulders quivered from the strain of her crown.

Once Lyanna looked past the finery, the girl resembled the portrait Arsenio had sent. The few curls that escaped her crown were dark auburn. Her face was pale and thin. Her features were those of a queen's. Irenna was no gangly girl blossoming into womanhood, but a flower in full bloom.

Arsenio had offered Rhaegar any of his five daughters. Rhaegar had demanded his best. The numerous envoys he'd sent to Tyrosh had agreed Irenna to be the most graceful, most gifted, and most beautiful of her sisters.

She was also the oldest.

Black hair aside, Harry resembled Rhaegar's childhood portraits and so would likely grow into a man of similar features. Such a day had not yet come. When Harry rose to stand beside his father, Lyanna was painfully reminded the boy was but three-and-ten. Irenna Lascaris was seven years his senior. She had to look down to gaze upon her betrothed's face for the first time.

In the past year Aegon, who had once matched his twin in height, had sprung a head higher than him. Lyanna prayed Harry's growth spurt wasn't far behind.

Rhaella had scolded her concerns. She had reminded her Jaehaerys was but three-and-ten. He had years yet to grow into himself. Rhaegar had not been considered tall until he was seven-and-ten.

Lyanna's first years in the royal court had been disastrous. She was proud to see Harry was nothing like her. He did not gawk at his betrothed or her even more exotic father. He barely stuttered as he introduced himself and extended his hand.

Irenna's neutral expression vanished when Hedwig stirred. Her eyes widened in fear and surprise as the white dragon rose to loom over Harry's shoulder and appraise his betrothed with unblinking amber eyes. Irenna did not scream. She stopped breathing altogether.

Hedwig leaned lower. One humid huff ruined any progress the servants had made in taming Harry's hair.

Beneath the pointed gaze of her father, Irenna took Harry's hand. Her gaze never left Hedwig's.

Lyanna thought she glimpsed a hint of wonder in her face. Lyanna had once felt the same for Rhaegar.

For Harry's sake, she hoped that light never faded from Irenna's eyes.

Arsenio slipped the first ring over the fourth finger of his daughter's left hand. Her dragon head was as red as any that fluttered on the royal house's black banners.

Harry was presented with the second ring. His hands trembled slightly as he slid it on. Not only was the little agate dragon as white as the real Hedwig, but it even had her black speckles. Yellow sapphires glittered in its eye sockets.

Rhaegar, as contractor of the marriage, was granted the final ring. Lyanna had expected his head to be the same the shimmering silver and gold as Solthys. The dragon had instead been carved from sleek onyx. Black was the second color of House Targaryen. It was an unfortunate coincidence Aegon's dragon was the same color.

When the final ring was forged, Lyanna hoped Rhaegar's head would be on bottom, for otherwise it would be dominating the other heads or forever between them.

 **The edits to the chapters after this are not so extreme. Medieval and Renaissance monarchs who really wanted marriages to stick would indeed sometimes make really crazy contingency plans - including some for unborn grandchildren that could possibly be born. I modeled Tyrosh heavily after the Byzantine Empire. The three-part wedding ring is also an iteration of an old Greek tradition.**


	8. The Fourteenth Night

**Minimal changes to this one aside from a little interaction with Aegon and a few subtle hints. Questions can be directed to this story's forum. Find the link on my profile.**

Harry and Aegon's name day celebrations started with thirteen days of tourneys and thirteen nights of feasting. In all his years as King it was the largest event Rhaegar had yet ordered. Guests poured into King's Landing from all across the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities. Gifts were imported from lands as far as Yi Ti and the Summer Isles.

The procession of presents began on the first night. From the minor lords and knights Harry and Aegon received simple gifts - daggers, spices, silver trinkets, and the like. Vernon and Petunia still would have bankrupted themselves in trying to provide such gifts to Dudley. The quality and quantity of the gifts escalated each subsequent night.

On the thirteenth day of celebrations, Harry knelt before his father to be crowned Prince of the Whispers. In turn the lords and knights of Crackclaw Point knelt before him to swear their fealty. Many of his grandest gifts that night were intended for his new holdfast - casks of Arbor gold and other vintages, luxurious tapestries, a four poster bed carved from ebony and rich red oak. His gifts were greater than those of Aegon's.

Arsenio Lascaris presented his gifts alongside those of the Lords Paramount. They were of the Essosi style, but no less valuable. Even as he offered up enough to furnish half of the Whispers, he warmly assured Harry he would supply the other half awaited his wedding day.

Irenna's earliest gifts had been tomes of dragonlore that dated to the days of the Freehold. Only after Harry was presented with her final gift, a great lacquered saddle for Hedwig, did he learn the saddle had a matching bridle. Irenna and her father had learned too late that dragons were not ridden like horses.

Harry was bemused at just how many of his and Aegon's gifts had been intended for their dragons. His holdfast had received entire herds of pigs and cattle to sustain Hedwing. His new vassals had pledged acres of nearby forests to serve as her hunting grounds. Less-informed lords had sent treasures to adorn Hedwig's new 'hoard' like she was one of the talking dragons from the old Westerosi fairy tales. Hedwig prized roasted pork over gold and silver. Harry supposed he could sell off the extra gold to start acquiring dragons of a different kind.

Aegon had been easy to find gifts for - a new cyvasse set, a courser and a fine falcon for when he preferred to hunt, exotic swords and knives. On the thirteenth night Harry presented him a dark gray blade veined in black.

"Qohorik smiths are said to be unmatched," Harry said as Aegon examined the sword. "It may not be Valyrian steel, but it is crafted to resist shattering and hold a sharper edge. I hope it will suffice until you are granted Darkfyre."

"It is a fine blade, brother, nearly the colors of my personal sigil." He seemed almost when he turned presented Harry his sword. Aside from the dragon-shaped handle, the sword was mundane.

Harry thanked Aegon all the same. The steel was solidly crafted and its weight balanced.

The fourteenth and final day of festivities fell upon his actual name day. Harry dressed in his finest and most uncomfortable doublet and breeches. He expected no special attention.

* * *

When Rhaenys walked down the aisle of the Great Sept of Baelor, Harry struggled to keep his face neutral.

To the rest of the world, Rhaenys was over a year older than him. Harry had always seen her as his _little_ sister. She was only fifteen, after all, and lived a far more sheltered life than he'd had as the Boy Who Lived. By the standards of this world, she had been considered eligible for marriage since her first flowering two years ago.

In her gown of red and black, Rhaenys appeared a younger version of the mother Harry had only seen in portraits. Rhaenys looked far more radiant, for her smile could have lit up the night sky.

Aegon maintained his composure but nothing could dim the light in his eyes. Or the eagerness.

Rhaenys and Aegon had always been close. Over the past two years, Harry had watched their innocent love morph into amorous infatuation. Watching them moon eyes and shy smiles across the table had been even unbearable than enduring a second puberty.

 _At least they're not being dragged into marriage kicking and screaming,_ Harry reminded himself. _This is their happily ever after._

Harry couldn't bring himself to smile when Aegon replaced Rhaenys' cloak with one bearing his personal arms, a single-headed black dragon against a storm-gray background. At least he kept his face relatively pleasant. Lya dabbed at tears that were more sorrowful than joyous. Jon couldn't stop fidgeting. In her tight corset Visenya radiated misery. Melisandre and her acolytes burned holes into the High Septon's white robes.

Officially Rhaegar and his children followed only the Faith of the Seven. The High Septon was a kind and doddering old man who said nothing about the King's master of whispers being a woman who proudly declared herself a Slave of R'hllor... or that the same woman was Aegon's most trusted protector and advisor. Rhaenys both lit candles to the Seven alongside Rhaella and accompanied Aegon to Melisandre's 'meetings,' but refused to dirty her skirts in the godswood. Jon was happiest kneeling in the dirt alongside his mother. Visenya cared for nothing beyond Lycaon.

Harry only entered a place of worship whenever it was requested of him. He tried not to think about the Thing or the other terrible sounds in the mist when he did so. If powers like the old gods or the new gods or even R'hllor existed, he had never seen them before.

"Finally," Visenya exclaimed when the ceremony concluded. Her voice was barely audible over the cheers of the crowd.

Harry rubbed the white marble of his ring. Irenna Lascaris was a near stranger and seven years his senior, but she was neither his sister nor a girl barely flowered. Visenya's latest betrothed had been some sickly little lord. A raven bearing news of his death had reached King's Landing but a week before.

* * *

Harry Potter's dance with Parvati Patil at the Yule Ball had been disastrous. When Harry Targaryen had started dancing lessons, his grandmother had not allowed him to leave the Queen's Ballroom until his instructor had grudgingly deemed him adequate.

The whole realm was in attendance for the largest wedding of the decade. Practically every lady desired a dance with the King and all three of his sons. Never before had he been so grateful dancing was a basic requirement of a royal education.

His first dance of the night was with his betrothed. Out of her voluminous robes, Irenna moved like water, even if she did hesitate over certain steps. Harry concentrated on guiding her through the unfamiliar dance. Aegon might have been undergoing a growth spurt, but Harry's current line of sight brought him to Irenna's bust-line. He refused to let his eyes stray below her face and survived the first dance with his future wife with no perverted glances or trod-upon toes.

When the first song flowed to the second, he and Aegon fluidly exchanged partners.

"Well, that went better than I expected it to," he muttered.

Rhaenys giggled. For a while, he could just pretend this was a normal dance with his sister for a normal celebration.

Only at the end of the song was he able to muster the courage to lie through his teeth and add, "Congratulations, Rhae. I'm happy for you and Aegon."

His sister smiled and pressed him a chaste kiss on the cheek. Harry couldn't entirely hide his shudder, but Rhaenys was already being swept away by their father and did not notice. Dany came into his arms next.

"How was your lion cub?"

Dany's nose wrinkled. "A decent enough dancer, for being a statue."

If Draco Malfoy had also been reborn in this world, it had been as Tysan Lannister. His golden hair and crimson doublet made him easy to spot. His little sister was smiling and laughing. His face was solemn as stone. Harry had never seen him make a more pleasant expression. When Minisa stumbled, his lip momentarily twitched with what might have been either a smile or a sneer.

"Does he treat you well? If he gives you any grief-"

"Yes, yes. You'll shave his mane off and have Hedwig drop him into the Sunset Sea. Jon already promised me his head as a trophy." Daenerys rolled her eyes. "I spend time at the Rock every year, Harry. Tysan is his grandfather in miniature, but Tywin adored his wife, and Tysan has never been needlessly cruel." She paused. "Besides, if the cub grows too presumptuous with me, I doubt Drogon will leave enough behind for either you or Jon."

When the third song ended, Harry turned expectantly toward Visenya. His little sister did not even look in his direction when she curtseyed to Aegon and stalked off to the crowd.

Harry was not surprised. Visenya had torn her mother's solar apart when she had been informed her first partner would be Jon and screamed she would slit his throat on their wedding night if it ever came. Not even Rhaella had been able to convince her she and Jon had been paired up simply for their lack of betrotheds. Visenya had simmered in silence only when Rhaegar called her before him.

Dany rolled her eyes. "She only stayed for three dancers because her last partners were Rhaegar and Aegon. The King wouldn't stand for anything less."

"No," Harry sighed. "He wouldn't."

Ser Arthur or another Kingsguard were already shadowing Visenya to ensure she didn't slip off that early. Visenya preferred using the underground passage that ran to the Dragonpit but was not above striding through the streets to reach her dragon. When Lycaon had been a yearling she had once even tried to leap from Maegor's Holdfast to land upon his back.

Upon dances with Lya and his grandmother, Harry found himself with Arianne Martell. She represented Dorne in her father's place, for a flaring of his gout had confined him to Sunspear.

"It is unfortunate Visenya has tired of dancing for the night," she said conversationally. "My brothers were quite looking forward to dancing with her."

 _Your unbetrothed brothers, you mean._ Harry's eyes sought out his Dornish cousins. Quentyn looked quite content with an Yronwood girl, but Trystane and the dark-haired Arryn girl were making faces at each other. Both had not sought Visenya out since the first night of festivities.

"Fourteen straight days of celebration is tiring for anyone, let alone a little princess," Harry said easily. "I don't see your daughter out tonight."

Little Elia Martell had her mother's name and her mother's face. She had not seen her second name day. On the first night she had started screaming like a dragon when her family had begun dancing without her and she had been left behind with a nursemaid. She had not stopped shrieking until Viserys, her uncles, and various extended relatives spun her around the other dancers.

"This summer heat was not good for her today," Arianne sighed. "I planned for us to remain in King's Landing until the new year, but we may have to return her to the Water Gardens early."

Harry assured his cousin the health of little Elia was more important than remaining for the new year celebrations. It took him a moment to remember his own wedding fell upon the first day of the new year. Arianne smiled and thanked him for his understanding. Then the songs changed and Harry found himself at the mercy of the realm's ladies.

He braced for the usual assault from Bella, but it was Irenna who reached his arms first. She smiled as if completely oblivious she had narrowly cut off the beloved firstborn daughter of Robert Baratheon. As Harry guided her back into the dancers, he glanced over her shoulder. Little Arya had beaten all the ladies who desired Jon and eagerly dragged him after her. Red-faced, Bella grabbed the man closest to her and pulled him after the other dancers.

"Is that stag girl always so forward?" Irenna wondered. "She pursues you every night."

"Bella is a cousin," Harry sighed. "She is very... affectionate.

Irenna's gaze darted to Jon, who had never had a betrothed of his own. "Then her priorities are skewed."

For three songs Irenna let no one else steal her away. Her black gown was a stark change from the voluminous robes she had worn the earlier nights. Harry spied far too many lords surveying her form over the shoulders of their partners. He stared down every roaming eye he could and sensed Irenna doing the same behind his back. Perhaps Irenna thought her age and experience would make her the dominant partner in their relationship, but they each staked their claims upon the other.

Irenna only surrendered him to Sansa Stark, who was but a girl of nine. Despite her age, she was a fine dancer, even if she spent the entire song gushing over how lovely King's Landing was and how it compared to Storm's End and Highgarden. Arya, who spent much of their dance stepping on his toes, was a more pleasant partner. As tradition dictated a Stark must always remain in Winterfell, Catelyn Tully had remained behind with her youngest son, Rickon.

Bella Baratheon could not be denied forever. Due to her rather sizable chest, Harry had a hard time keeping her at a modest distance before he was able to foist her back on Jon. Her younger twin sisters were each satisfied with a dance. Their mother, Janna Tyrell, was the happiest she'd been since her youngest two children had retired for the night. She was never far from her husband.

Robert Baratheon had always been a giant of a man and the prodigious belly he now sported made him even more so. Those in the melee had learned the Stormlord had lost none of the strength in his swing. Aside for one tense moment where he had boisterously led Lyanna through a rendition of "The Bear and Maiden Fair" he had been content dancing with his wife and other close relatives.

Aside for his oldest daughter, none of Stannis Baratheon's family had traveled to King's Landing, citing Shireen's health and the young ages of his sons. Stannis and Cassana had been sitting down since the end of the first song. Those few suitors who braved Stannis' stoic stare to dare ask his daughter for a dance found themselves politely rebuffed.

Margaery Tyrell spared him only one short dance. Harry spied her with only the most eligible suitors in Westeros - that included a dance with Theon Greyjoy, the only one of his family in attendance, who had been formally declared Rodrik Harlaw's heir. He had assured the court his good-sister, Cerenna Lannister, was now surely pregnant with the healthy babe that would be Maron Greyjoy's son and heir. Cerenna had already lost two sons and her daughter Yara was sickly.

After fourteen straight days of witnessing House Lannister in its entirety, Harry had never been more grateful to not be directly tied to it. Mountains looked warmer and more inviting than Tywin Lannister. Jaime at his left-hand side looked the loneliest man in the world. Rumor had it his mad wife remained locked in a room in Casterly Rock nursing the corpse of her mummified babe. Dany assured him the whispers were exaggerated - Robin Lannister was fragile but still very much alive and Lysa just never liked to leave his side for very long.

Jaime and his twin had been supposedly joined at the hip up until Aerys had named him to the Kingsguard. Even after his release from service his sister would have nothing to do with him. Those rumors were quite true; Cersei had danced with many of her kinsmen but had not even glanced in her brother's direction. Their younger brother had not even attended at all. Tyrion had sent a fine hoard of Lyseni goods. His message sent the royal family his best regards and his apologies for being unable to attend, but the seven hells would have to freeze over before he sat in his father's company again.

Harry looked to Aegon, the twin he had been unable to muster up the stomach to congratulate. He could not remember a time they had ever been close. At least he would not spend half his life longing for a lost friendship like Jaime Lannister did.

Suddenly tired, Harry bowed to his last partner and took his leave of dancing. Rowena Arryn looked relieved to get back to the book she'd been reading under the table the whole night.

Not spotting Jon amongst the dancers, he headed for the crowd of lordlings raucously betting on how much wine Smalljon Umber could take before keeling over. He searched for Robb's bright red hair and was unsurprised to find both his little brother and his Stark cousin amongst the spectators.

"Shouldn't you you be basking in your adoring public?"

Jon scowled at him. "I must have danced with every woman in the Seven Kingdoms by now. I don't even plan on getting married!"

Harry snorted. "Like we get any choice in that." Robb swayed on his feet and Harry grabbed his arm to steady him. The boy's face was flushed red as his hair. "How much has he had to drink?"

"There's nothing wrong with my drink," Robb protested. Then he raised his empty flagon and roared for more wine in a voice that could have put Robert Baratheon to shame.

Then Robb fell limp. Leaving him draped over a table and snoring, Harry scanned the hall for his father. He spotted Ned and Lya at the opposite end, herding the three youngest wolf pups off to bed. There were hardly any children left.

Dread settled in his stomach.

Calls for a bedding erupted. Another rendition of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" started up as the newly weds were mobbed. Aegon smirked as Bella and a Frey girl tore at his tunic. Despite the two white knights at her side groping hands still snatched at Rhaenys' trailing skirts. Someone roared for her tits to be shown.

Head spinning, Harry searched for an escape. The crowds were pressed in too tight for him to move and they were pulling him toward his siblings. The siblings that were about to-

A maid with crimson hair squeezed through with a tray of goblets. Harry seized his chance. A liquid too thick and salty to be ordinary wine poured down his throat. It muted the shouts to a dull roar.

The crowds pressed in closer. They seemed to be shouting something. He wasn't sure whether he grabbed the bottle himself or someone held it to his mouth and wouldn't let him go.

Harry choked and sputtered, but the fire flowed into him. His insides burned.

Whether the darkness was death or unconsciousness, he welcomed it all the same.

 **If watching your underage newly-wed siblings be stripped naked so they can fuck for the first time doesn't drive you to drink, then nothing will. If you think force-feeding your prince some shifty-looking wine until he passes out is not a good idea, then you aren't drunk enough.**


	9. The Foundations

**Again, very little changes to this chapter. I don't plan on revising any future chapters until this story is wrapped up for good. Questions can be asked on this story's forum. Find the link in my profile.**

Harry awoke to a pounding head and a burning sky. Then he realized the red and orange clouds were just from a vivid sunrise and not from an actual fire.

He inwardly cursed the first hangover of his new life. When he realized he was not alone in bed he swore and leaped to his feet.

For one slow second he thought it was Ginny, but Harry dimly recognized the red-haired serving maid from the night before. She did not even stir at his outburst. Beneath the sheets she looked as naked he was.

He searched the floor for their clothes and did not find even a shoe. It took him far too long to realize this were not even his chamber; the room was far too small and simple. Aside from the single tapestry on the wall, the room could have been but one of many of the Red Keep's guest quarters.

The high-pitched ringing in his ears eventually subsided. The faint sound of crying did not.

The door outside didn't budge. When he pressed his ear to the door he heard nothing on the other side. Next Harry checked the window. From his view he knew himself to be somewhere in Maegor's Holdfast. Not a soul stirred in the courtyard.

Panicked, Harry shouted for the maid to wake up. She did not. When he shook her, she was comfortingly soft and warm to the touch, but as limp as a doll.

He turned his attention to the single tapestry. It was faded and moth-eaten around the edges, the sort of decoration spared only for highborn guests of lesser importance, or for when there were too many important people to squeeze into the usual luxurious accommodations. A heavily-pregnant woman lounged in the shade of a pomegranate tree, one of the unpeeled fruits in her hands. Her long silver-gold hair was unbound and her purple eyes stared blankly out into the room.

Harry pressed his ear to the woman's belly. The sound of crying, now the only other sound in the world, grew slightly louder.

He ripped the tapestry from its hinges. As he threw it aside he felt a lighter, more familiar weight in his right hand, one he'd never thought to feel again.

Harry smiled down at his holly wand like one would at an old friend. Warmth radiated from its phoenix core and surged into his limbs like a breath of fresh air. He had forgotten what it was to be alive until every fiber of being again quivered with magic. The cold morning air and the embarrassment of his nudity no longer bothered him.

 _"Alohamora,"_ he said as if he had cast his last spell only yesterday and not in fourteen years.

The wall effortlessly slid back on hidden hinges to reveal a dark stairway beyond. Harry lit his wand with a single _Lumos_ and started his descent.

Despite his small size, his shoulders brushed against the walls whenever he made the slightest deviation from the center of the staircase and had to squeeze around the corners. Rhaegar had ordered a number of secret passages sealed off after his coronation, but a fair number still remained. Harry thought he was acquainted with nearly all of them, but he had never been inside one so narrow before. Then again, the Holdfast was supposedly the one location in all the Red Keep where Maegor had wanted no secret holes in his walls.

Not long into his descent, Harry nearly ran into a crystal wall etched with sinister symbols. It shimmered with unsettling light.

 _"Bombarda!"_

When it shattered the crying grew louder. The crystal barrier left no fragments behind.

Harry discovered five more such obstacles and broke every one of them. Each time he did the noise grew louder until it manifested into a child's muffled cries for help.

Each crystal wall grew darker than the last. The seventh and final barrier was as opaque as obsidian.

Harry had shattered the six first walls with ease. When he attempted to destroy the seventh, his spell halted halfway in midair. Sweat beaded on his brow as an invisible force not unlike the _Priori Incantatem_ held him back.

The child's cries faded away. He grew colder and number than when he had first faced Dementors. Beneath the roar in his ears, he swore he heard his mother screaming.

 _"Not Harry!" **"Promise me!"**_

With a roar, he forced the spell to completion. The obsidian wall shattered and the opposing power died with it. Exhausted, Harry dropped his wand and fell to his knees.

Warm light spilled out from the room beyond the barrier and purged the numbness from his bones. Harry climbed to his feet in time for the emaciating and trembling child that came stumbling out of the chamber to cling to his feet. Its embrace was burning to the touch.

"You came," the child sobbed. "I thought no one ever would."

Harry reached down to pat the child's head. The child turned its face up to look at him. Harry gazed directly into its eyes and saw-

* * *

Harry awoke to a pounding head and a wine-soaked pillow. He was in his own bed in his own chambers. He was still in his clothes from last night and reeked of sour wine and other things too terrible to contemplate. There was no one else in his bed and no sounds of crying.

He staggered over to the nearest window. The usual morning rush of servants bustled in the courtyard below. The bloody sun had budged no further above the horizon than it had in his dream. From the hall outside he heard the first sounds of a very hungover castle awakening to the first day after the largest royal celebration in decades.

Harry tore his room apart. There was no secret passages in his walls, no unconscious serving girls under the bed, no phoenix wand hidden in his sheets.

Most distressingly of all, there was no tell-tale tingle of magic surging through his veins, only the gaping emptiness Harry didn't know he'd been living with for fourteen years.

There could have been no magic at all in this world. It was rumored Melisandre was responsible for the resurrection of the dragons, but Harry had only ever seen her perform parlor tricks a Muggle magician could have pulled off with fire. Melisandre had been nowhere nearby when Hedwig had hatched.

Perhaps there was magic even in Westeros, but that part of him had truly died with the Horcrux.

Harry shook such groundless thoughts from his head and focused on the most sensible thing he could think of; he cracked open his door and called for a bath to be drawn. Then he glanced at his reflection to check how dark the shadows under his eyes were.

His face with caked with something red and half-dried. It was not wine.

He stumbled to the mirror, but his mind was not deceiving him this time. He only had peel the filthy hair from his forehead to confirm his scar had split open during the night and was only just scabbing over.

* * *

Minimal questioning of the servants revealed all that had transpired last night. One goblet of wine for him had turned into many. The drunken lordlings that had been cheering Smalljon Umber had goaded him on instead. Some witnesses insisted he had grabbed the bottle himself and wouldn't let go. Others claimed some men had taken matters into their own hands. Conflicting accounts made it difficult to pin down the culprits, if there were any true culprits at all.

When Rhaella had caught on, Ser Arthur had been sent to retrieve him. In the chaos Harry's head had hit the table and reopened his scar, but by that he had already been drunk out of his mind anyway. Ser Arthur had hauled him up to his chambers and that had been the end of it.

Or so the servants claimed.

Harry located the red-haired serving girl in the kitchens. As soon as she spotted him she squeaked and dipped into a shaking curtsey.

Then she burst into tears.

No one in the kitchen was bold enough to blatantly stare at a prince but he could see them watching him out of the corners of his eyes. He waited for her sobs to die down before asking her name.

"J-Jenny, Your Grace."

"Have you been in King's Landing long, Jenny?"

"A-All my life, Your Grace, but I just started working here last month and then _this_ happened a-a-and-" Jenny wailed and dropped to her knees. "It's all my fault, Your Grace! Just mine. Please don't blame my family for this."

Harry wished he could grab her shoulders to steady her like any decent human being would, but he was a prince, and had learned the hard way smallfolk flinched away at his touch. His gut twisted when he was able to piece enough of her sobs together to realize her aunt had once served as a maid under Aerys. His grandfather had ordered her burned for making eye contact with him.

"I promise no one is in any trouble, Jenny," he said when she had calmed down enough. "I just need some help remembering what happened last night."

"So many people were calling for wine and there just wasn't enough of the kinds the King wanted us to serve for the wedding. 'Only the best,' he said." She wrung her skirt. "But the guests were all so _thirsty._ We ran out of the barrels the King wanted out. We couldn't get the rest out of the cellars fast enough. The Queen Mother said it was okay for us to use the nameday presents that were going to be used by the kitchen anyway. I just grabbed a bottle and started pouring, Your Grace, but then you grabbed a goblet and you just kept drinking. Lords were shouting at me and I was just trying to keep everyone happy."

Harry nodded gravely. Nothing Jenny had said indicated last night's dream was anything more a bad barrel of wine. Both the goblets and the bottle forced down his throat had been of the same vintage. She handed him a bottle supposedly of the same kind.

The glass was jet-black. It bore only a crude two-headed dragon stamp in some crude form of Valyrian declaring it had been bottled in Mantarys.

Harry uncorked it. One sniff of its contents and his churning stomach confirmed his suspicions. He thanked Jenny, again assured her nothing was her fault, and gave her the bottle to dispose of. It could tell him nothing more.

Mantarys had not been the focus of his lessons on Essos. Harry knew only the city had been but one of many founded by the Valyrians and rested somewhere between the Free Cities and Slaver's Bay. Rhaegar had ordered marriage offers from Mantarys automatically destroyed, but he had done so to many other cities wishing for Harry or one of his family to be pawned off to them.

Harry had no idea who had sent the crate of wine or whether the gift had been intended for him or his brother. He had received enough gifts in the last two weeks to fill a castle - a castle he now had, by the way. Fortunately, dutiful record-keepers had kept track of each and every gift. The Mantaryan wine had been gifted to both princes by one Margot Hightower.

Old Lord Leyton had quite a few daughters. Harry was positive Margot had been the one that had never married.

After inquiring Margot's whereabouts, Harry asked Ser Arthur to accompany him as more of a precautionary chaperone than for protection. Rumors flew in the Red Keep at the slightest provocation. Harry was not about to let it be whispered he was having an affair with a spinster.

He was quite surprised when Ser Arthur's eyebrows rose. "Your Grace, may I inquire as to what business you have with my niece?"

Harry's mind reeled before remembering Arthur's sister was Ashara Dayne, who had married Baelor Hightower. A decade ago she had been a great beauty, but Ashara had chosen to remain in Oldtown with her two youngest children than attend the royal wedding.

"Your niece was the one who gifted the wine that gave me... most peculiar dreams," he said carefully. "I only mean to ask her more about the reasoning behind her gift. Its taste was unlike any wine I have ever tasted. Never before had I seen wine from Mantarys."

"Mantarys, Your Grace?" Ser Arthur repeated in disbelief. "That is peculiar indeed. It is said nothing comes out of Mantarys that isn't as twisted and monstrous as its people. Are you certain Mantarys was where the wine was bottled?"

Harry nodded firmly.

* * *

When Harry knocked on the door to Margot Hightower's chambers two ten-year-old girls opened the door. Both greeted him with graceful curtseys before scampering past him to embrace Ser Arthur.

Margot had her uncle's pale hair and violet eyes. Although Maris' facial features were similar to her sister's, her hair was golden brown and her eyes several shades darker. They haughtily informed Harry that, contrary to popular belief, they were not twins. Margot was nearly a year older than Maris.

Harry scarcely heard them. His gaze was riveted to their chambers. The purple eyes of the woman in the tapestry stared blankly back at him.

"Is it not a fascinating style, Your Grace?" Margot said brightly. "There are only so many treasures that survived the Doom. Aenar the Exile must have brought it with him when he escaped Valyria. Grandfather had to buy our tapestry from some old Lyseni."

"How are so certain the tapestry is Valyrian, my lady?"

"Up until my baby brother was born last year, _I_ was Father's heir. Oldtown is the largest and oldest port city in all of Westeros," Margot retorted. "A lady of Oldtown should know everything she could about its imports and exports."

"Then could you perhaps tell me more about my nameday gift? I am quite curious as to why you chose Mantaryan wine."

"All the traders selling Valyrian goods turned out to be forgers," Maris interjected. "Father sentenced at least three of them to death. Margot had to settle for the next best thing."

Margot glared at her sister and smoothed her skirts self-consciously. "Mantarys is the closest city to Valyria to remain inhabited since the fall of the Freehold. The rumors about it are greatly exaggerated, Your Grace. Only about as many Mantaryans are as deformed as there are Sistermen with webbed hands and feet, and most of their deformities are quite minor. Their culture is said to be the closest to Valyria at its height. Your house is the sole survivor of the forty families. If a gift from Valyria itself couldn't be located, I thought one from Mantarys would be a suitable replacement."

Harry assured Margot her gift was thoughtful and most appreciated. He inquired if her family were remaining in King's Landing for his own wedding. The girls regretfully informed him they were sailing for Starfall in a few days' time to visit their Dornish kin and would then be on their way home to Oldtown.

He wished Margot and Maris a safe voyage. Leaving Ser Arthur some privacy with his nieces, he wandered down the hall, and tried to picture a secret stairway down to a subterranean chamber hidden in the walls.

* * *

The next few days crawled by.

Harry tore the library apart and found little on Mantarys he did not already know, save for that it was still connected by dragon road to the ruined Valyrian cities of Bhorash and Oros. Their closest ancestral ties were to the cities of Tolos and Elyria, other states of Valyrian descent with scant information written of them. The tomes on Valyria called them great sorcerers without offering details of their magic.

Ghost and Drogon were both larger than Hedwig, but she was the nimblest dragon alive. Harry was almost always the victor of their races above King's Landing. Even a few hours airborne or riding horses with Lyanna in the kingswood helped him forget how restless he was back in the Red Keep.

The night after the Hightowers departed he waited for most of the castle to fall asleep before sneaking out of his chambers. He lit his candle only when the door to the guest chamber was safely closed behind him.

He dared not remove the heavy tapestry from its hangings for he would never be able to put it back on his own. Instead he slipped behind it and ran his fingers over every inch of the wall.

One of the bricks at shoulder-height yielded when he pressed into it. Something in the wall groaned and, with enough force, gave way. Cold dank air billowed out from the black void beyond.

Harry grabbed his candle and started down steps that were exactly how he dreamed them, tight corners and all. The space was too confined for even a short sword. One hand always rested on the dagger strapped to his side.

Roughly where he had encountered the first crystal barrier he found only faded strings and rotted clumps of what might have once been paper.

The deeper he descended, the colder and thicker the air became. He tore down vast cobwebs and inhaled dust that seemed to settle down in his lungs. Each crystal barrier had grown darker and more opaque than the last. Each collection of strings and rotted paper grew thicker. Among the ones further down Harry discovered tarnished silver coins. If he squinted hard enough he could almost make out a star on one.

The seventh and final barrier rested on the bottom of the stairs. The ground was thick with rotted clumps and filthy hunks of metal that might have once been coins. The walls and floor around them, even the ceiling, seemed to have odd indentations that might have once been runes. The marks were too faded to tell.

Harry hesitated before the things that might have once been runes. The air grew so cold it was almost burning. His candle spluttered low.

Then he stepped over the barrier. He gasped as the cold force upon his lungs immediately seemed to lift. His candle flared up so brightly he briefly thought himself holding a wand again.

His heart sank when he glimpsed the condition of the chamber beyond.

Walking through it confirmed his worst fears. Scorch marks still blackened the walls and the air carried a faint tinge of ash. He stepped carefully over shards of broken glass and the smoldered remnants of tables. He sighed in relief when he saw the bones that littered the floor were too small to belong to a child.

He was turning his back to the chamber when he saw something shimmer in the corner of his eye.

Brushing glass fragments and ashes aside, Harry carefully lifted up a slender cylinder of obsidian. He cut his finger on one of its sharp edges and a drop of blood dripped to the floor. The shape and size reminded him of a candle, but the wick had no wax. In the candlelight the deep black glass glittered green and black.

In his dreams the phoenix wand had revitalized him with magic. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but his fingers tingled when he picked up the glass candle.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Harry cast his candle wide but he was alone.

The obsidian warm in his hands, he began the long ascent. He looked back often, as if someone were following him up the stairs, but nothing else in the darkness stirred.

A quick glance out the window revealed it was still dark. Harry closed off the secret entrance and snuffed out his candle. He relit in in the safety of his own chambers.

He experimentally held the obsidian candle like a wand and tried to remember how it felt to channel magic. _"Lumos."_

It did not light.

Harry thoughtfully cupped the orange flame of the mundane candle. He remembered being bathed in the warm light of his dreams. He remembered burning in the maw of an unspeakable horror.

He grabbed the ordinary candle in his left hand and held it up to the obsidian in his right. The flame flickered out.

For a moment, there was darkness.

Then, the glass candle lit. It shone a color brighter than gold, smoldered a red deeper than Melisandre's eyes, flared a white brighter purer snow, then guttered to a black so deep it swallowed the night. Harry peered into its depths.

* * *

Branches laden with pomegranates swung in a breeze heady with blossoms and brimstone. Soft grass crunched beneath his boots. Above the rustle of the trees came the sounds of a bustling city. Voices called out in half-familiar words.

A slender girl with moon-pale skin and silver-gold hair stared off into the distance. When he took a step forward, expecting the vision to end, she sharply turned in his direction. Her stare pierced him. One eye shone wildfire green and the other red as Ghost's eyes.

"You came," the girl said slowly. "I thought no one ever would."

"You were calling for help," Harry said. "I followed your cries."

The girl shook her head. "The gods sent you to me."

Harry recalled the Thing that had thrown him into this world, and did not scoff. "The old gods or the new?"

"The gods of your fathers, Jaehaerys Targaryen."

Harry took an instinctive step back and surveyed his surroundings. Beyond the smooth black garden wall rose crystal spires and towers of shimmering obsidian. He asked where they were.

"A pleasant memory," sighed the girl, "of when we were at our height."

Harry finally recognized the words as High Valyrian, and understood.

"I'm Harry," he protested. "Just Harry."

Her lips quirked into a smile. "I am Saraide. Will you sit with me, Harry?"

Harry did.

 **Of the numerous religions that could have tried to claim Harry for their own, no one guessed the old gods of Valyria. To be fair, they are one of the most obscure religions in the books. We know very little about the ancestral faith of the Valyrians beyond the names of three deities - Meraxes, Vhagar, and Balerion.**


	10. The Gods of His Fathers

**A month of real life distracting me, and then 48 hours of editing five chapters and writing two new ones. I would recommend old readers check out the changes done to _The Resurrection_ and all subsequent chapters. A new chapter, _The Dragon King Ascendant,_ bridges some years in the time-line. Check out this story's forum to ask questions and find out more background information for this story, including an appendix of the major players in Westeros that goes up to 295 AC. Find the link on my profile.  
**

Sitting in the shade of an impossible garden with a girl who should have been long-dead, Harry did not know where to start.

Saraide's chiton of lace and cloth-of-silver, loosely tied around the waist with a heavy belt of emeralds and sapphires, concealed most of her figure. Her face could have either belonged to a girl in adolescence or a woman grown. Her left eye shone a brilliant green. Her right was red - not Melisandre's ruby-red, but the color of the sap of Winterfell's heart tree, the red of freshly-spilled blood. Harry wasn't sure he was reminded of Ghost or of Voldemort.

"Are you the woman in the tapestry or the child I rescued in my dream?"

Saraide tilted her head thoughtfully. "Describe this dream of yours."

While Harry struggled to recall every detail he could, a satisfied smile crawled across her face.

"Shrykos is no mere woman, but the first woman in the world, the first divinity. From her and her son Morghul was born all else." Saraide smiled up at the pomegranate tree. "I am but a faithful servant."

Harry dimly recognized the names not as deities, but as two young dragons that had died in the Dance. He told Saraide as such.

"Dragons are fire made flesh. To bond with one is to bond with one of the gods' greatest gifts to the world. Many dragons were once named for the gods in the hope they would be embodied with a fraction of their power. It is a tradition your house continued long after it forsook those gods that granted them their power." Her face fell. "Forty were the houses of the dragonlords. Forty were their lines of dragons. And now yours is the last."

Harry tried and failed to find some words of comfort.

Then the world beneath him fell away.

* * *

Saraide stood by his side as the black walls of Dragonstone coalesced around them. Even without the detailed map over which Aegon the Conqueror had planned the invasion of Westeros, Harry still recognized the Chamber of the Painted Table. His father preferred to rule there than from the Iron Throne.

Dragonstone was guarded by a small army of grotesques and gargoyles flawlessly molded from black stone, but Harry had never before seen the dragon that dominated the eastern end of the room. It stood on four legs instead of two and two unfurled pairs of wings. Twin tails twined around its body. Two heads crowned two separate necks.

A young woman who strongly resembled Daenerys wept before it. She thanked the gods for the dragon dream that had delivered her family from the total destruction of Valyria.

The years flowed by like water. Harry watched five more generations of Targaryens pass through the chamber before the Conqueror came of age and ordered construction of a massive table painted to resemble every geographical feature of Westeros. In the precise location of Dragonstone he sat upon a raised chair and appraised his future conquest. Behind him loomed the idol of his gods. In the mornings the great black dragon cast a shadow over the whole continent.

When Aegon returned home both a newly-crowned king and newly-converted follower of the Faith, he ordered the idol smashed to pieces and its pieces thrown into the narrow sea with Dragonstone's new septon at his side. Beneath the eyes of their king, the smallfolk threw their own idols and heretical texts upon a bonfire. Overnight Dragonstone was declared cleansed of evil. Aegon personally flew to Driftmark and Claw Isle to oversee similar conversions.

Then the memories carried Harry to the shores of the Blackwater and the built of the Aegonfort. Its temple to the Valyrian gods had been still under construction when Vhagar and Visenya razed it to the ground.

Visenya was left to oversee the creation of King's Landing whilst Aegon ruled from Dragonstone. Upon learning the grand sept was to be built upon her hill, she flew back home to rage at her brother for all he had forced her into. Aegon's grand vision for his city would not be altered. Visenya thought it poor consolation she was allowed only the tapestry of Shrykos and the unborn Morghul. The other six tapestries of the sacred dyads had been deemed too overtly heretical and burned.

Aegon died not long after the Aegonfort was destroyed and the Red Keep ordered in its place. Maegor could deny his mother nothing. She requested only a modest chamber and a single passage to a room built precisely over the remnants of the temple she had been forced to raze so very long ago.

* * *

And then they were back beneath the pomegranate tree, the sounds of a long-dead city drifting over the garden wall.

"Forgive me, Harry," Saraide said as if tears weren't flowing down her face. "To communicate through glass candles is to cross the world and into another's dreams. I knew Daenys once, before my studies took me east and her dreams across the narrow sea. I watched over her family for as long as I could. Visenya was the last of your house to keep the gods in her heart. Through losing her the gods of our forefathers lost their last foothold in this land. Their magic was sealed away and I could see here no longer."

Harry frowned. "Visenya died some years before Maegor, who wasn't exactly the Faith's favorite person. Why didn't he keep to the old ways?"

The shadow of the pomegranate tree grew long and dark. The pleasant breeze grew hot and heavy. Saraide's eyes burned bright when she spat, " _Maegor_ was the one to seal us away! I was blind to what was happening in this land, to the last of the dragons and their dragonlords. Our gods could have died forever, and I could do _nothing_ because of those-"

Saraide bit her tongue and the cool breeze returned. The long shadows retreated with her smile. "Then, ten years ago, the veil over this land briefly parted. I saw dragons had returned to the world and that your house flourished as it had not in generations. I saw _you,_ newly blessed with the mark of Balerion."

Upon first awakening in a new life to a new family, his fevered visions had seemed nothing more than nightmares. He tried to recall if he had glimpsed Saraide and her garden before.

Saraide's fingers tried to touch his scar. Harry stood up.

"You said you served Shrykos," he said, "and I never saw you before."

Her smile never wavered. "Shrykos is the Lady of Life. From her and Morghul were born the king and queen of heaven. Meraxes brings the rain, but is Balerion who wields the thunderbolt. It is to the God Most High that the others bow. You struck down the chains that bound them as Balerion would. To serve one god is to serve them all. Fourteen are their fires, and fourteen their faces."

His instincts screamed he was being watched. Harry looked around but saw nothing. "And what precisely do your gods want of me?"

"You are heir to powers not seen in this world since the fall of the Freehold. They would like you to fulfill your potential and not let such magic die out again."

His breath hitched. He wondered if Saraide sensed his desperate longing like he had her grief and rage.

"I suppose they want you to my teacher then," he said as neutrally as he could.

Saraide's eyes flickered. "I serve Shrykos first and foremost. Her work is... women's work. Magic no man could wield. There is little I can teach you. I will show you what I can, but another time."

"Why not now?" Harry demanded.

She giggled. "Because, Harry, we do not wish you to die."

* * *

Teeth chattering, Harry's opened to freezing darkness. He wondered if the night had been but a delirious dream and he was still dying in Queen Visenya's secret room.

He blindly crawled across the floor to tuck the glass candle in the niche between his mattress and its frame. To climb into bed was to climb a mountain.

Three days later he woke when his fever had broken. Grand Maester Pycelle calmly explained his body had been fatigued from the long and strenuous festivities. He recommended bed rest. Having raised Rhaegar as a son, Rhaella had sharply curtailed his reading hours so he could not further strain himself by staying up long into the night.

Years ago Harry had poured through books on Valyria to both learn more of his new world and whatever hints of magic lurked within it. Rereading them brought no new breakthroughs. The tomes mentioned only that the Valyrians had worked fire and magic as an artisan worked clay. Their dragons and sorcerers had conquered kingdoms.

Fire and magic. He had sliced his finger upon the glass candle. His scar had split open the night he had released what was imprisoned beneath Maegor's Holdfast.

He researched glass candles. Sorcerers could enter dreams and talk to another half a world apart when seated before one. The long-dead maesters offered no further specifics.

Was it lighting the candle or sustaining the vision that had drained him? With he chill he wondered if the obsidian wall of his first dream still had its claws on him.

Finally he searched for Saraide's gods, Shrykos and Morghul, Balerion and Meraxes. Westerosi history mentioned only that some Targaryen dragons had been named for the old pagan gods. Upon Aegon's conversion the old idols upon Dragonstone, Driftmark, and Claw Isle had been ordered burned or thrown into the sea. Septons consecrated new holy ground for the Seven. The precise names and natures of these gods were unrecorded.

All Free Cities but Braavos were daughters of Valyria. Essaria had been razed by Dothraki and Gogossos forsaken when the Red Death had bubbled up in its slave pens. Lorath worshiped the chthonian gods of its mazes and Norvos a god whose name was known only by his bearded priests. Mercantile Myr cherished no one faith about the others. Many in Pentos worshiped R'hllor but slit their prince's throat to appease older gods if they suffered famine or defeat. Lovely Lys, where the old blood ran strongest, had no official religion but favored its naked love goddess just as Tyrosh favored the three-headed Trios. The common-folk of Volantis kept to R'hllor. Those within its Black Walls held the gods of Valyria.

Harry frantically flipped through Maester Ellard's treatise to his travels in Volantis. The Old Blood proudly proclaimed unbroken descent from Valyria and kept most strongly its traditions. Maester Ellard had been allowed within the Black Walls but denied every request to visit their family shrines or witness their worship. He bitterly wrote that the haughty Old Bloods were not the descendants of dragonlords, but the spawn of lowly foot soldiers.

Maester Ellard had refused to venture further east. He derided 'Mantarys and its ilk' as dying peoples that stubbornly clung to poisoned land on Valyria's outskirts.

Harry slammed the book shut.

Thoroughly sick of dead ends after a week in bed, he eagerly leapt to his feet when Pycelle gave him leave. He donned his stiff doublet and slicked his hair without complaint. A day of court with Rhaegar and Aegon seemed positively pleasant in comparison.

* * *

When not in King's Landing Rhaegar left dispensation of justice to Hoster Tully, his elderly but capable Hand, or his justiciar. Stannis Baratheon was a man more just than even Rickard Stark had been, meting out harsh but fair sentences to lord and commoner alike. Most grudgingly respected him. Harry suspected some smallfolk even loved Stannis to a degree, for even Rickard had shown preferential treatment to the noble-born.

"Stannis Baratheon is a man one might find but once in a lifetime, and even he is not infallible," Rhaegar had cautioned. "Remember that as lords is to you, not your delegates, your smallfolk will ultimately look to. You must both become competent judges of character. You must both settle disputes and, if need be, accept your role as effective executioner."

Rhaegar sat upon the Iron Throne in solemn black garb and adorned only by his simple gold crown. He calmly listened to a gold cloak's testimony of interrupting a rape before sending the gold cloak out and interviewing his three comrades separately. The girl, no more than twelve, then tearfully explained how her family had tossed her onto the streets 'to live with the rest of the whores.'

Rhaegar requested the gold cloaks to escort the girl to the queenshouse on the Street of the Sisters and, if it was full, to the one on Weir Row.

One guard frowned but did not protest. The almshouses in King's Landing were few and poorly managed. Rhaella had founded the first queenshouse on the Street of the Sisters from her own coffers and then several more throughout the city. Lyanna had later funded one not far from the young godswood in Woodside. They were not religious institutions. Most smallfolk thought otherwise.

As soon as he was dragged in the rapist pleaded the black. It spared his stalk, but not the stones. The Night's Watch swore to take no wives and father no children, after all, and some brothers needed more assistance than most.

Aegon scowled after the man when the guards hauled him out. "A pity the gelder must be well-practiced."

"On the contrary," Rhaegar said heavily, "few monsters are so straightforward."

Harry's fists clenched around his arm rests. "If the gold cloaks hadn't caught him in the act, he would have gotten away with it."

His stomach roiled when Rhaegar nodded grimly. Men slipped back into crowded alleys before they could be apprehended. Others called the womens lying or fickleminded whores. Some even claimed to be acting upon their marital rights. Few eyewitnesses were reliable as Jon Connington's gold cloaks and few criminals so eager to admit guilt. When there was sufficient proof Rhaegar recommended forcing a man to pay compensations to the victim's family if he refused the black. If there was no guilty man to convict, women could at least be directed to a queenshouse or the Faith. There were always orders of septas and silent sisters to accept those no man would marry.

"But it's not fair!" Aegon exclaimed.

"It is just," the King said. "A king who ignores his own laws decrees that there are none at all."

"A king can make his own laws!"

"How can his vassals keep their faith in such a king if the laws change with his every whim?"

"Vassals obey their king," Aegon stated.

Rhaegar arched a brow. "And when those vassals decide to not obey such a king?"

Aegon's face flushed. "He _makes_ them obey. If they do not heed him, then they shall heed his armies!"

Rhaegar questioned what armies a king could raise if his vassals had forsaken him. Aegon furiously countered with mercenaries and outside alliances. Rhaegar asked why such vassals would heed outside powers when they had not heeded their own king. What would that king do if war raged on and his coffers ran out and his allies tired of him?

Aegon, red-faced, rose from his chair and stormed out of the hall. Harry stared after him. Had _he_ looked so foolish whenever he had lost himself in temper?

"Has he always been this... passionate?"

Rhaegar started slightly, looking to his left as if he had forgotten his presence. "A king must have an iron will, but one tempered with reason. Your brother is but a youth yet and has reached an age where he hungers for more than just quiet complacency in my household. Ruling Dragonstone on his own will grant him perspective. Crackclaw Point is sworn to Dragonstone, Jaehaerys. Upon your wedding day you will be granted your rightful control of the Whispers. You will be expected to bend the knee to Aegon and accept him as your prince."

Years of etiquette training kept Harry from shrugging. "I know, Father. He's the next king."

Rhaegar waited a minute before realizing he had nothing else to say. The King straightened on his throne and called for the next case.

Harry sat for hours of guild disputes and criminal cases. Lysene lace and Lorathi velvet was both allowed to be traded in King's Landing, but the higher tax upon Lorathi goods stood. Lennard Langward man was ordered to honor a previous agreement to pay ten dragons a year to Hilda Brune and their bastard girl. His father ordered dragons paid and dragons returned and dragons taxed. Men were fined or walked free. Some took the black.

The final man was hauled in with a dirtied rag stuffed into his mouth. Gold cloaks had caught him ripping up new plantlings in the city's godswood and found trees carved with seven-pointed stars nearby. He had been gagged for crying all that was not of the Faith needed to be razed to the ground and nearly starting a riot in the cells.

Rhaegar inquired his background. The man was an old inhabitant of Flea Bottom. Flea Bottom had been razed when Harry was but a small child to make way for the revitalization of the city quarter. There was no room for the downtrodden in Woodside or its godswood. Most had been pushed to the fetid shanties outside King's Landing.

Rhaegar granted him the black. He first sentenced his tongue be pulled out so his brothers who followed the old gods need not heard such vile words.

The man's eyes never left the King's. Harry could not decide if he reminded him more of Voldemort's most zealous Death Eaters or those who had most resolutely stood against them at the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Father," Harry said quietly, when the man he had been dragged off to the King's Justice. "Why take his tongue?"

Rhaegar's gaze was stone. "His outbursts were but a symptom of a far deadlier disease. It must be scoured from this city and not allowed to fester on the Wall. He cannot write and so cannot spread his poison. With luck, he will die of infection or when the snow flies. We must stand together, Jaehaerys, and not tear each other apart for petty differences."

Harry wondered what those bitter men on the Wall would have said about that if the King hadn't claimed their tongues. He rose from his chair and left, for there was nothing else to say.

 **The idea of Flea Bottom being razed to build an entirely new section of King's Landing (including a godswood for public use) was inspired by Central Park's construction. The tradition of massive redevelopment is far older - Nero used the excuse of a massive fire to build a huge-ass palace on the ruins.**


	11. The Bridges Built

**Months of writer's block and then this all came pouring out of me last night. Unless I explicitly say so, this story is never dead during times of inactivity, just on a very long hiatus. I write this stuff for fun. Hopefully with this one out of the way the newer chapters will come to me sooner.**

 **I will also state flat out I don't write porn. Most smut bores me and adds nothing to the plot. If this story ever gets upped to an M, it would be for graphic depictions of violence and other such disturbing content. Readers wanting to get their rocks off will just have to use their imaginations :p**

"A whore?" Harry echoed in disbelief. "You mean to get me a _whore?_ "

In the privacy of his quarters Aegon didn't flinch. "Only an unforgettable night with a woman of experience. It's your business if you continue seeing her after. I only meant to ask your preference in girls. Your bride is beautiful, but you'll be sharing her bed for a lifetime."

Westeros was a world where girls were married at their first flowering and their husbands proudly boasted of their extramarital conquests. There were even whispers of Rhaegar's own mistresses, for it was an open secret he'd not shared a bed with Lyanna in years. For the most part Harry could only grit his teeth and ignore it.

Aegon's offer, however, was another matter.

Harry bit back on his first impulsive response to tell Aegon exactly where he could shove his whore. He could not remember the last time his brother had willingly sought him out, much less to ask him his opinion on something. Aegon was also prideful and prone to taking things the wrong way.

"Why are you asking me this?" Harry said at last.

Aegon flushed but did not avert his gaze. "Before my own wedding night Ser Lyn and Ser Arys brought me to the finest brothel in King's Landing for a whore of my choosing. Rhaenys was so beautiful, like a woman grown. I... couldn't go to her bed a boy. She deserved better. Instead I gave her a night we'll never forget."

For a moment his eyes clouded over, lost in a memory but a few weeks old. He did not notice Harry fighting to conceal a disgusted wince. However, Aegon's gaze sharpened, and he continued on.

"Irenna Laskaris is not only a woman grown, Jaehaerys, but she is _Tyroshi._ I have heard much of Essosi women's sexual appetites. I can't let you go to her bed when she'd eat you alive."

"I'm not a virgin, Aegon." Granted, Ginny had been a literal lifetime ago, but Harry had scarcely turned fourteen a second time. "I know what happens on the wedding night."

Aegon wilted in relief. "Oh, thank the gods. Forgive me for slighting your manhood, Jaehaerys. I have never been the best brother to you."

Too many years in this life had warped Harry's moral compass. Part of him was touched at Aegon's attempt at trying to act the elder brother. It was the first time he remembered Aegon doing so.

"I never asked you to be." Harry had long since reconciled with the reality he and his twin would never be close. Aegon was a bit a brat, but mentally sound, and had never threatened his life or place in the family. Considering how some of their ancestors had treated their brothers, mutual civility was far better than heated rivalry.

"And that's the point! Even as a boy you were always so reserved, so distant, like you were above the rest of us. I can't really remember a time we were ever close."

Harry remembered. Jaehaerys' memories clearly recalled a time when he and Aegon had been inseparable. They had torn the nursery apart pretending to be dragons. Their nursemaids had chased them across Dragonstone.

Then Harry had awakened. Jaehaerys hadn't died in the fall, but his memories had been subsumed by an older consciousness. Having Dudley Dursley for a cousin hadn't helped Harry Potter make friends on the playground and those days were long past. Rhaenys and Aegon had noticed how awkward he'd become around them. Jon and Dany had been too young to care.

"Though you're a stranger to me," Aegon continued, "you know me as well as I know Rhaenys. I told no one how I envied Father receiving Darkfyre, and you order the closest alternative for a Valyrian blade crafted for me. Deathbrand is such a fine sword I shall pass it down to my own son once he becomes Prince of Dragonstone." He laughed hollowly. "And I gave you shit in return."

"It doesn't-"

"It matters!" his brother snapped. "I can barely hold my tongue during court. When I dare speak up, Father scolds me for my rash judgements or my temper. You _listen_ to everyone, no matter how foul or insipid they sound. Father never scolds _your_ answers. It matters that I'm the heir and that _you'll_ be my vassal soon. If the Prince of Dragonstone cannot understand the twin he shared a womb with, how can he rule every other lord that answers to him?"

Harry waited for the fire in his brother's eyes to recede. He took several steps forward to narrow the gap between them.

"I don't want a Qohorik sword or the perfect wedding gift, Aegon. What matters is that you're trying to find out what's important to me. _Listen_ to me, like you should listen to all who'll answer to you. Keep our needs in mind as you try to be true to yourself and the kingdom's laws.

Aegon stopped scowling. Hope and skepticism warred on his vulnerable face. "It can't be that simple."

"No," Harry admitted, "but it's a start."

"Then what do you need for your wedding, if not a sword or whore?"

"Truly nothing. I'm a prince about to showered in another mountain of gifts." A small smile quirked at his lips. "However, I would _like_ our relationship to extend beyond lord and vassal. Can you consider this a fresh start to our brotherhood?"

Aegon tentatively returned it. "I could, Jaehaerys."

"Harry."

It was a start.

* * *

"Good evening, Harry." Saraide smiled. "Your mind is unusually at peace."

Harry hesitated. Saraide assured him she had little insight into things deeper than his strong surface emotions, but it still unnerved him to have a foreign presence even tangentially connected to his mind. Lord Voldemort's ghost did not die easily.

"I am on stronger terms with my brother. Is that a problem?"

"On the contrary, it is a boon. The calmer your mind is the longer we can extend the connection." Her smile widened. "Of course, your improved endurance certainly helps."

Harry took his now customary spot beside Saraide. It was easiest for them to remain in one memory rather than flitting through multiple locations. Saraide was fond of her pomegranate tree. Its shade kept them cool. Its heady fragrance masked the brimstone in the air and the stink of a city that wafted from beyond the garden's black walls.

After his first attempt at lighting the glass candle Harry had waited a week before trying again. His shared dream with Saraide had lasted mere minutes before she had chased him from her garden. He had needed to build up his stamina to sustain the glass candle's power.

Saraide insisted he was not yet strong enough for anything beyond maintaining the connection. She used their dreams to tell him of her gods. To understand Valyria's gods was to understand the forces that had crafted. Now he sought her lessons every night.

He groaned as she passed a familiar shape into his hands. "Another review?"

"How can you weave the world to your whims if you do not understand its threads?" Saraide countered. "Remember the words of your house. Valyrian magic is not merciful to those who wield it in ignorance."

Physically traveling between memories, as they had once traveled to Dragonstone and King's Landing, was taxing, but recalling smaller objects was less so. Rather than taking Harry to Valyria's grand temples Saraide settled for the small idols crafted for shrines in the home.

"Shrykos, Lady of Life," he recited dutifully. His fingers cupped the figure's swollen belly. "Symbolically pregnant with all the latent generations yet to come into the world. Or else with Morghul for in all life lurks death. To call upon either is to risk death's glance upon you."

Valyria's fourteen gods were all paired with their complementary counterparts. The lord of wealth opposed the lady of war, the fire god the water goddess, and so forth. As Saraide passed idols into his hands he named them; Vermithor, Vhagar, Caraxes, Tessarion, Aegion, Thalatte, Syrax, Skadzios. Some were easier to remember than others, for old Targaryen dragons had shared their names.

Harry didn't flinch when a statue of Valyria's two highest gods fucking each other was next handed to him. When a dyad was invoked together they were depicted in either in frenzied copulation or violence. There were stranger cultural quirks in this world.

"Meraxes, Queen of Heaven, whose rains soothe her husband's wrath. And Balerion, the God Most High, whose roar is the thunder and wings the buffeting storm winds."

Meraxes was always depicted as a beautiful maiden with hair white and ethereal as the clouds. Balerion, even when shaped like a man, had unmistakable molten eyes and an obsidian hide. This idol happened to depict him as a dragon.

Saraide nodded approvingly as her mismatched eyes flitted to his scar. "Balerion is not only lord of storms, but destruction, for he tears down all in his path. Rarely should even you call upon such power, for it will devastate all in its wake. Balerion's magic is a god's power that will strike as it wills."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Then how do I control it?"

"You do not. You will call upon Balerion's favor even more rarely than I do Shrykos'. Twelve are the gods you know. Now you must learn of the final pair."

The idol in his hands disintegrated into wisps of smoke. Saraide carefully delivered another icon into his hands. Revolted, Harry almost dropped it.

Frenzied violence and frenzied fucking between divinities were things Harry now expected of how Valyrians viewed their gods. This one could not decide which it was.

It took some squinting to determine the sexes of the pair. One figure was androgynously beautiful, youthfully slim and flat-chested. Only the small cock between its legs revealed his gender. Even flat on his back the boy's eyes were wide and guileless.

The figure atop of him was androgynous, her young body haggard and marred with greyscale and a thousand other plagues. Face twisted in hatred, she reached down to strangle the same boy that sought to lovingly embrace her.

"Meleys and Mithrias," Saraide intoned reverently. "Ill-willed Meleys aims to strike down all that is good in the earth. She is every plague and pestilence in the heart of man. Merciful Mithrias will never resist. Only his healing power spares his life."

All other gods are who they are, and act as they will act, to the benefit or detriment of mankind. Meleys and Mithrias, however, are governed by _intent._ A sorcerer who wishes ill upon another invites Meleys into their heart, and she will goad even the greatest gods into mischief. Likewise, Mithrias smiles down upon those who mean for their magic to help. Where he has not the power himself, he will entreat greater gods to act on a mortal's behalf."

Harry snorted down at the hideous figure. "She doesn't seem all that tempting."

"Sickness is rarely so straightforward," Saraide cautioned. "She senses the smallest weakness, your slightest grudge against another, and picks at your resolve until it crumbles. If you resist, she grows all the more spiteful, and eats away at those around you instead to take the revenge she cannot."

Her fingers reached toward his lightning bolt scar. His look stopped her, as it did every night. "Balerion has marked you as his own, Harry Targaryen. Meleys is too covetous to turn aside her gaze so easily."

Saraide's wildfire green eye remained fixated upon him. Her red eye, the color of weirwood sap, flitted in the direction of the garden wall.

"You will be married soon, will you not? Rest well, Harry, and seek me after. I would hate to distract from the bride upon your wedding night."

His vision flickered like a candle about to burn out. In a moment he'd be awakening to his own chambers.

A thought came to Harry. He reached out to grab the pomegranate tree. The bark felt nearly real, a solid weight to anchor himself to.

The shadow of the pomegranate tree stretched far and dark, its cloying sweetness pungent against the stink of brimstone. For a moment the dream guttered black and red. Then his vision snapped back to the garden. Saraide returned his stare, stoic as her statues.

"Aegon and Rhaenys' wedding night," Harry said firmly. "At first I thought the dream only from a bad bottle of wine, but then that dream led me to you. If Balerion marked me all those years, why did the gods find me again so much later?"

Saraide's eyes bore into his for an eternity. "Can you recall this 'bad bottle?'"

Harry would never forget that terrible, salty taste. He willed the black bottle with the crude two-headed dragon into existence just as Saraide had called upon her idols and passed it into her hands.

Her lip curved upward. "This is sacramental wine, unfit for human consumption. It is intended only for libations poured before the altars of the gods. Mantarys is among the few cities that will consecrate it. Usually this wine makes it no further west than Volantis. No other Free City keeps to the old rites. Whoever served it to had no idea it was intended only for gods, and yet again opened you to their power."

Then Valyrian gods lacked mortal palettes. "What makes such wine holy?"

"Rituals observed by the priestly class. They are beyond my purview."

Harry nodded. From her tone he would learn more tonight. "Thank you, Saraide."

"You are most welcome, Harry, as you always are. Now rest and recover your strength, so your lessons can soon begin in earnest."

Harry let go of the pomegranate tree and surrendered to the force that returned him to his own chambers. He collapsed into bed only after hiding the glass candle. He did not wake until the servants roused him the morning after.

* * *

For Tyroshis, even those who did not worship Trios, the most auspicious omens were said to come in threes.

Irenna's childhood betrothed, a Myrish cousin, had been discovered dead in bed alongside a male Lyseni prostitute. By the time the Westerosi envoy had reached Tyrosh she had again been promised to a Pentoshi magister twice her age. When King Rhaegar had favored Irenna over her sisters, the same Pentoshi magister happily settled for a marriage to her youngest sister, and Irenna became promised to a prince.

Such auspiciousness should have extended to her wedding day, rings blessed and exchanged three times, three sips from the common cup, three sacred hymns to consecrate their union. They should have worn their golden crowns, exchanged three times between their heads, and symbolically tied by their wedding's officiator. For as long as husband and bride both lived, their crowns would be safely stowed away together. Only when one of them died would the ribbon be cut, so they might be buried with their crown and the union ended.

But King's Landing was not Tyrosh or any other Free City that smiled down such rituals of three. Aside from the wolf queen and Prince Jon, the royal family kept to the Faith, and the new gods were jealous gods.

Arsenio had insisted on the three engagement rings as solid proof of the betrothal contract. Today they would become one. It was the only part of a Tyroshi ceremony the High Septon would allow in his halls, because the King had ordered it of him.

Tyroshi brides wore loose, draping robes in the richest materials their families could afford. It was both a display of wealth and a reminder the bride was off the marriage market, her body her husband's right alone. The elaborate head-dresses signified much the same, a family's wealth and a wife no longer allowed a maiden's unbound hair.

Irenna instead wore a Westerosi gown that clung to her waist line's every curve. Queen Rhaella's influence had thankfully made conservative necklines fashionable, but the tight corset still allowed a man to imagine what was not his to touch. Arsenio had desired her gown in cloth-of-gold. Upon learning Westerosi wedding gowns were typically white, he had instead ordered one of silver and ivory samite. Her hair was restrained in elaborate braids, but still exposed to every eye.

Her father, resplendent in gold robes and his proud purple beard newly dyed, smiled in satisfaction. "You look every inch a queen."

Her mother's gaze was far more critical. "With how that gown is cut everyone in this barbaric backwater can imagine every inch of her."

Arsenio waved a dismissive hand. "Our daughter looks radiant, Athenais. Let the barbarians see what their prince has paid for."

"What _we_ have paid for," Athenais corrected sharply. "This family's wealth has been given away in gifts, and we still have two daughters to wed."

Irenna hid her wince. She had done some rough calculations of what the match had cost, but her father had jealously hidden many of the costs from the family. She had merely suspected their coffers badly depleted, not exhausted completely.

"Bah! Already the magisters are clamoring to pay us for their hands. Who doesn't want to be tied to those wed to the world's last dragonlords?"

The most lasting of alliances required their marriage contracts to bear fruit. Athenais had given Arsenio nine children, seven of which still lived. Since Irenna's betrothal two other of daughters had married and bore their first children. Now Irenna was expected to do the same.

Arsenio lovingly draped the maiden's cloak around her shoulders. The cloth was colored deep Tyroshi purple, a dye worth its weight in silver. Stitched in golden thread was the spiny shell of the same sea snail that yielded the dye, her family's greatest source of wealth.

Tyroshi families did not typically keep crests as the Westerosi houses did, but Arsenio had eagerly commissioned one to drape around his daughter's shoulders. Furthermore, he had already drafted designs with a golden dragon coiled around the shell, for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren that would be dragonlords in their own right.

To secure her family's future, Irenna needed but two children. A daughter would bring dragon blood and dragon eggs directly into the Laskaris family. A son would ensure her husband's inheritance. Jaehaerys was second-in-line to the throne after all. Should Aegon bear no surviving male issue, the crown would fall upon his brother's.

Her family's fate fastened around her shoulders, Irenna inhaled deeply, and left her chambers behind to face her future.

Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys' wedding had been agonizingly slow, drawn out by arduous displays of power and prestige. Irenna did not face the same difficulties. Her audience for the feast afterward, as it honored both the newlyweds and the new year.

A crowd gathered in the streets to cheer and gawk. Irenna's wheelhouse was preceded by her family's eunuchs, who sung hymns in High Valyrian to honor bride and bridegroom. Coins and trinkets were thrown to the smallfolk as symbols of their new princess' good will. There were no further performers this time. Her arrival in King's Landing had been spectacle enough.

After the grandeur of the last wedding, Irenna was at ease with her own ceremony. The Great Sept was not so intimidating when her audience was considerably smaller, though impressive all the same. Her father escorted up the aisle. She felt the eyes of those in the pew upon her, but she did not tear her gaze from those standing before the High Septon.

Not even five-and-thirty, the Dragon King cut a tall and magnificent figure. Silver-gold hair and violet eyes emphasized a handsome face that could have belonged to a dragonlord of the Freehold's golden age. Any other king would have draped himself in jewels. Rhaegar's regalia extended no further than a modest gold crown and the Valyrian steel blade buckled to his red silk belt.

Beside such a legendary man his son might have seemed an inferior shadow, but Jaehaerys stood with a gravity of his own. He was still growing himself, after all, but still he stood like a man comfortable in his own skin. Valyrian violet was a striking color, but never before had Irenna seen eyes like her prince's. His black hair and silver circlet could not conceal the scar upon his forehead curiously shaped like a lightning bolt. It did not mar his features, but made him look slightly roguish. If King Rhaegar looked the part of a Valyrian dragonlord, then Jaehaerys was how she envisioned the Freehold's mysterious sorcerers.

The High Septon spun some pretty yarn of brotherhood and how love traversed all boundaries. Irenna scarcely heard him. In a Tyroshi ceremony all three rings would have exchanged between bride, groom, and contract holder three times to honor their lifelong connection. But this was not Tyrosh, and Trios was not among the seven gods honored by the Faith.

She and Arsenio turned to each other. He gently removed the red dragon ring from her finger.

"I, Arsenio Laskaris, grant this ring so that my daughter Irenna might pass out of my household and into a greater union."

Her father returned the ring to its resting place. The symbol of her betrothal had become the first acknowledgement of her wedding.

Jaehaerys took her hands in his. His palm was only slightly sweaty.

"I, Jaehaerys Targaryen, grant this ring to seek a greater union and welcome your daughter into my heart."

His hand did not shake when he slid his own ring upon her finger. The white dragon joined the red.

The High Septon obligingly stepped aside so that the King might take his place before them. "I, Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, grant this ring as contract holder, to welcome Irenna Laskaris into my house and acknowledge a greater union."

Briefly the King seperated her hand from the prince's. His hands were surprisingly soft for a man his age. The black dragon head slid down atop the red and white. Only then did he retreat back to his son's side to again face Arsenio.

Jaehaerys removed the maiden's cloak. He unfastened his own cloak from his shoulders and draped it around hers. Prince Aegon had presented Princess Rhaenys a cloak bearing his own personal coat of arms. Arsenio and Irenna had both demanded her wedding cloak be the traditional Targaryen black and red. She was not marrying into some mere cadet branch like Prince Viserys', but to a direct heir of the throne.

Irenna returned his gaze evenly. She was pleased to note their eyelines met now. When she had first arrived in King's Landing she had looked down upon him.

"With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love and take you my lady and wife."

The High Septon declared them one. Irenna's lips met her husband's first time. It was short and chaste. Some practice kisses with Thenio and her eunuchs had been riskier.

Jaehaerys was pleasant enough through the feast. He never strayed far from her side and his eyes never wandered. He graciously accepted gifts and well-wishers. They discussed safe topics together, such as relatives or what they knew of their new keep in Crackclaw Point. Arsenio had warmly assured her that though the Whisper was currently a keep of modest size it lacked for nothing in the proper amenities. Irenna wished to believe him. She also dreaded how much more of the family fortune had been frittered away on her behalf.

The same could not be said of the food. Every pie was stuffed with peaches. Every meat dish was dripping in pear sauce. Every goblet contained pear brandy. Irenna was not surprised when Queen Lyanna proudly announced she had organized the feast. The wolf woman seemed the type to hear Tyrosh was famous for its pear brandy and assumed its citizens consumed the fruit in every dish.

The wedding guests compensated for the lack of variety in their alcohol by consuming more of it. By the time the dancing start the crowd was uproarious, demanding lewd songs from the musicians and shamelessly groping at their partners. Prince Aegon had been a perfect prince when he had danced with Irenna early in the night. Less than ten songs later Rhaenys was giggling in a corner, her husband's hand roaming up her gown.

Queen Lyanna was woefully oblivious, dancing with some Northerner, but the Queen Mother was ever vigilant. She shooed the prince and princess off to bed. They did not need much convincing.

Irenna swallowed, and turned her thoughts back to dancing. Jaehaerys had been stolen for another round with another of the matronly ladies who dared not approach the King himself. Plenty of their amorous husbands turned their eyes upon her. When her husband was unavailable, her brothers were always there to foil all but the drunkest dancers.

At least Kyrillo did. Her older brother had dyed his beard blood red and could look quite demonic if he wanted to. Alekio, gods bless him, had not yet even seen his tenth nameday. Irenna indulged him anyway.

"Shouldn't you be dancing with Princess Visenya instead of with your own sister?" she teased.

Alekio made a face up at her. Their mother had not yet broken him of the habit. "I tried. She's pretty, but she kept asking me if it was true if we feed our slaves to hungry dogs when they displeased us."

"Surely you told her it's another of those wild tales this backwater always believes about us?"

"She said I was lying. I told her I wasn't, and then she threatened to feed me to her dragon if I didn't tell the truth." Alekio rolled his eyes. "I wander how many fools she bullies around with that lie."

Prince Jon was a pleasant enough child, but Lyanna had utterly failed with her youngest. Irenna vowed she would never raise such an ill-tempered child, especially a daughter.

Alekio grinned as Robert Baratheon drunkenly careened past them with a giggling girl on his arm. "I love these songs! They are all so lively compared to what Father always has the eunuchs sing. What do they mean?"

Irenna's tutors in the Westerosi tongue had certainly taught her no uncouth language. Her months in the Red Keep had been most... enlightening. She told Alekio the ramblings of drunken fools were none of his concern.

"Fuck the new year!" roared a lord in blue and white. "There's a bedding to get to!"

"The bedding!" others chanted as it quickly became their war cry.

Lords and ladies alike swarmed the dance floor. Wide-eyed Alekio was nearly bowled over until their father fished him from the rabble. Kyrillo shoved his way through to stand protectively at her side. He fingered a dagger on his belt, darkly muttering in their native tongue about dogs that deserved to be cut down.

Irenna feared a bloodbath until Ser Barristan Selmy gallantly came to her aid. Flanked by the Kingsguard and her brother, Irenna was guided through the crowd. Hands still slipped through their defenses to tear at her gown, pawing at her chest and buttocks.

By the time Irenna reached her husband's chambers her sumptuous gown had been lost. A small fortune rested in rags upon the floor. Only her tattered small clothes clung to her.

"We have arrived, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said respectfully, for Irenna was his princess now.

Kyrillo did not step away from her side. "Are you sure you would not like my knife?" he said baldly, uncaring if the knight understood the Tyroshi dialect. "Even the mere threat of a gelding can make the most stubborn husband agreeable."

Irenna now knew the mystery behind why Kyria and Amynta never complained of their husbands. "Good night, Kyrillo."

"Good night, little sister." Kyrillo pressed a kiss to her forehead, as if they were still children, and reluctantly departed.

"He meant truly meant nothing with his words, Ser Barristan. My brother is a tad too deep in his cups. Growing up our father ensured he was very protective of his five younger sisters."

The old knight smiled wryly. "Big brothers never stop being big brothers, Your Grace."

Irenna inhaled, wished Ser Barristan good night. She shakily exhaled once the door was safely shut behind her.

Lyseni literature was primarily meant to titillate men in the privacy of their own homes or to build up the anticipation of clients in its famous brothels. She and her sisters had long prized their secret cache. Their romances were gripping and its information on carnal matters diverse. Many stories involved well-endowed men initiating virgins to the mysteries of womanhood, or else master courtesans helping green boys master their own bodies.

Irenna had first fancied herself the bashful maiden. The fantasy had worn thin after learning how Thenio had died and how repulsive her second betrothed had looked in person.

Upon her betrothal to Jaehaerys, Irenna had next pictured herself the courtesan. She was seven years his senior, after all, well-read in a wide range of subjects. Kyria and Amynta's letters had helped where Lyseni erotica and their mother's advice had not. Her own hands had helped further her discoveries. The frequent examiners of her maidenhead never discovered anything amiss, but Irenna knew her own body well enough to know what it liked. Ruling her child husband from the wedding bed had sounded oddly appealing. Rarely could a woman hope to exercise such power in the world.

Irenna had abandoned such hopes after finally meeting her prince in person. Jaehaerys was not the type of man to be ridden. Nor was she the sort of woman who'd be dominated like some other wives were. She was the daughter of Arsenio Laskaris, a scion of archons and magisters. If she could not rule the dragon-rider, then she would be his equal, like how the legendary Queen Alysanne had been to her Jaehaerys.

The courtesans of Irenna's stories would have arranged their torn small clothes to be at its most alluring. The virgins would have buried themselves beneath the blankets and wept.

Irenna was neither. She stripped the tattered small clothes from her body and wrapped herself in a blanket against the night chill. Bright moonlight poured in from the windows. The King and his sons were no-nonsense men. Irenna was not surprised to discover her husband's chambers contained little beyond the bare essentials, however finely made they were.

Jaehaerys stumbled in even more naked than she. His muscles were finely developed from years in the practice yard. Kyria had always fantasized over rugged soldiers and battle-scarred kings. She ruefully wrote she had learned to appreciate a scholar's lanky frame. Irenna had no need to settle, and her husband had growing yet to do.

Before she lost her nerve, Irenna let her blanket drop to the floor. "I hope this pleases you, lord husband."

In the darkness it was impossible to tell if he blushed. Irenna's own cheeks felt scorching hot. However, the prince frowned, eyes resolutely trained on her face.

"I apologize for the damned traditions over here," he said bluntly. "I never imagined being married like this."

"Neither did I, lord husband," Irenna retorted. "You were my third betrothed and yet here we are. I have been told by many I'm beautiful, but those men are not you. I have sisters yet who are unwed. If this marriage displeases you, it is best annulled before it is consummated."

His face remained carefully impassive. "Is that what you want?"

"What I want is a match that is of mutual benefit for myself and my family. I want to share a bed with a husband whose appearance does not repulse me, who is interested in carrying a conversation with me. I want a prince who has proved himself nothing but kind and courteous, who never sought to make untoward advances before our wedding night." Irenna sighed. "I do not love you, lord husband, for we scarcely know each other. Given time, I also believe I could easily learn to love you."

For an eternity the prince was silent. Irenna started to sweat as his green eyes stared into her soul.

"Harry," he said at last.

Irenna's brow furrowed. It was a Westerosi word she did not know.

Jaehaerys' face softened perceptibly. "I do not I could love someone who only dares call me 'lord husband.' To those closest to me I am known as Harry."

Confidence renewed, Irenna closed the gap between them and reached for his hand. "Then let me learn you, Harry."

Irenna slept late the next morning. She was not displeased to wake up to her husband still beside her, a satisfied ache between her legs.

Her next letter to her sisters spared no detail. After all, Kyria and Amynta had always returned the favor, and their sisters craved every tidbit for their own future wedding nights and restless desires. Kyria complained of Solon's bony shoulders and Amynta of Zossimo's paunch. Irenna had no such grievances to share. Teasingly, she also forewarned them to not fantasize about her dragonlord, for he was hers alone.

 **To those who'd whine Deathbrand is a shitty name for a sword, I'd say it's a transcription of Murgleys, an actual named sword from the medieval _Song of Roland_ _._ Teenage boys are also suck at giving things names that aren't ridiculously edgy.**

 **To me the Free Cities have a strong Byzantine flavor and so I largely base their culture upon it. Greek Orthodox weddings in general are also obsessed with the number three, oddly fitting for a city that in canon worships a three-headed god. Further questions and comments can be directed to this story's forum. Find the link on my profile.**


End file.
